


Rewrite the Rulebook

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Grinding, Inline with canon, Literal Sleeping Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Nosebleed, Phone Calls & Telephones, Sexual Fantasy, Slow Burn, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-05-04 05:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 60
Words: 100,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5321786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Karasuno needs a coach." Takeda knows what the volleyball team needs, and he's determined to get it at all costs. Ukai is prepared to resist but he's not prepared for Takeda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lead

Karasuno needs a coach.

It’s their primary lack, Takeda knows, and one that becomes more obvious by the day. He can serve as an advisor, can attempt to arrange practice matches so late into the evenings that the other schools stop answering his calls, but when the team is practicing he’s worse than useless, a novice so inexperienced he has to have the rules explained to him on a daily basis in spite of his efforts to study his notes over dinner or while he’s waiting out another long-ringing phone to get to an answering machine. All the enthusiasm in the world can’t make up for his obvious lack of experience, and on their own the team can only do so much. It’s a problem, a major one, and if it’s one Takeda can’t solve alone, he’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

He starts with history. The Karasuno volleyball team has been in place for years, as it turns out, long before Takeda was hired for his teaching position and immediately drafted into the role of faculty advisor. There are records of the club dating back decades, photographs of the teams arrayed in neat rows around the advisor and coach in the center of the group. The advisor changed regularly, often on a yearly basis, but even when Takeda goes back a dozen years the coach keeps repeating, a stern-faced man who doesn’t display a smile in a single one of the images printed in the previous yearbooks. But the teams are smiling, every student in them looking delighted to be captured in the image, and all of them looking more like a unified whole than the double handful of students Takeda watches in the gym every night.

He thinks he may have a chance, if he can gain contact information for the grizzled coach glaring fire out of the page at anyone idle enough to consider the old records. But: “That’s old Coach Ukai,” his colleague tells him when he asks her for details. “He was well-respected back when Karasuno was a force to be reckoned with.”

“We could be again,” Takeda tells her, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline in his veins that says he’s onto something, that he’s got the beginnings of a lead he can make into something worthwhile if he follows it out. “What happened? Where is he now?”

“Hospital,” is the answer he gets, that one word enough to snuff out all his hopes at once. “Heart problems. He retired from high school coaching completely for the sake of his health.”

There’s not much Takeda can say to that. He can hardly ask someone to sacrifice himself for the sake of a high school volleyball team, however much Takeda himself may care about the students he sees in the gym every day. So he discards the idea, along with his only hope, and returns to the textbooks, flipping through the photographs of the teams for hours on end as if they might give him some suggestion of where to go next.

As it turns out, they do.

It’s the names. On his first pass Takeda was looking at the faces, his attention caught and held by the stern gaze of the coach consistent through so many of the past years. But after his first failure he starts looking at the students, considering the array of high schoolers that form the team itself and idly amusing himself by trying to guess the role they play by their build. The liberos are easy to find, both for their smaller size and the different color of their jerseys; the aces, too, marked out by steady shoulders and the number 1 across their jerseys. Takeda makes guesses at spikers, setters, receivers, makes up whole stories for previous teams in his head, and it’s then that he starts to pick out names from the team list under the pictures. It’s easier to tell stories when he can attach names to faces: this one Inoue, that one Shimada, these two best friends and those rivals. He’s in the midst of this, lingering on one team larger than those in other years, when he sees him.

Takeda’s not sure what it is that holds his attention. There’s nothing particularly notable about the boy himself; his hair is cut short and clinging close to his scalp, his smile lopsided and almost sharp at the edges. His eyes are dark, his shoulders sturdy; he’s a little taller than his teammates but relegated to the back of the group, where Takeda can’t make out the number on his jersey. He wasn’t a regular, then, wasn’t even part of the main team, but there’s something familiar about those eyes, something that keeps Takeda’s gaze dragging back to them every time he tries to turn the page. Finally he goes down to the list of names, wondering if he hasn’t met the owner of those eyes somewhere in town, if that doesn’t explain the uncanny familiarity of those features. There’s the usual ordering of the regulars first, by their jersey numbers -- and then Takeda sees it,  _Ukai_   _Keishin_  clear like it’s been waiting for him to read it, and he knows why that expression is so familiar.

“He’s the coach’s grandson,” he’s told when he asks, a different coworker this time and one somewhat chattier than the last. “Attended school here several years back. Can’t remember much about him from any games, though, I don’t think he played much.”

“Does he still live in town?” is what Takeda wants to know. “Has he ever coached volleyball?”

“Coaching?” A furrowed brow, a shake of the head. “Not that I know of. There’s just been Coach Ukai here for years.”

“Do you have contact information for him?” Takeda pushes. “I can speak to him directly, it’ll be easier.”

“I suppose so.” His coworker reaches for a stack of phone numbers and ruffles through them. “He works at the Sakanoshita Store down the way, now. I don’t even know if he plays volleyball anymore.”

“That’s fine,” Takeda says, watching his coworker draw a stack of paper towards her and write out the digits of a phone number. “He must know more about volleyball than I do.” That gets him a laugh, a smile of amusement, and the number in hand to take back to his desk and his much-abused phone.

Takeda dials right away. It’s late, in the dark evening hours after the volleyball team has gone home but before Takeda has yet finished for the day, but the phone picks up on the second ring, the electronic whine of the tone giving way to a huff of air and a “Sakanoshita Store” in a bored tone.

If Takeda were the sort to be given pause by anything, the voice would do it. It’s lower than he was expecting, rougher and deeper than what he expected from the picture of the boy on the page in front of him. But the picture is eight years out of date, and Takeda has his speech already formed, so there’s not even a pause for breath before he’s saying “Ukai Keishin?” nearly over the sound of the other’s greeting.

There’s a pause, a hesitation that says  _yes_  before another word has been spoken. “That’s me,” the voice says, sounding uncertain, now. Takeda can picture the frown forming from the lopsided smile in the picture, can imagine a crease developing across the other’s forehead.

“I’m Takeda Ittetsu,” Takeda says, faster than he intended, his words tumbling over themselves in their haste to escape his lips. “I’m the faculty advisor for the Karasuno volleyball club. I understand that you used to play on the team?”

“Used to.” It’s flat, a conclusion, a door shutting, but Takeda isn’t one to be deterred by something so trivial.

“We’re looking for a coach,” he says, jumping to the conclusion of his speech without regard for the middle. “It was your grandfather who coached the team in previous years, correct? I’m hoping that you might have some interest in bringing your experience to the team now.”

“My grandfather.” Ukai’s voice is still flat, heavy, grating over the leading edge of rejection. “Not me.”

“Won’t you consider the possibility?” Takeda asks, talking faster still, trying to delay the inevitable conclusion before it hits. “I’m studying hard but I don’t know anything about volleyball, I’m useless as a coach to the team. Your name is well-respected, it would greatly improve our chances of setting up practice matches for the team.”

“Find someone else,” Ukai says, cutting over the end of Takeda’s plea. “I don’t coach.”

“Please reconsider,” Takeda begs. “Even just temporarily until--”

“Not interested,” Ukai speaks over him. “Sorry.” And the line goes dead, leaves Takeda with words still on his tongue and nothing but silence on the other end of the phone.

“No luck?” his coworker asks as Takeda hangs up the unresponsive receiver. “Sorry about that. Better luck next time, right?”

“Next time,” Takeda repeats. He looks from the phone to the yearbook, to Ukai Keishin’s dark eyes staring back at him from the printed page, to the notepad with “Sakanoshita Store” scrawled across the top in unfamiliar handwriting, and he feels adrenaline burning in his veins, feels the friction of a lead under his fingertips.

“Yes,” he says, the promise more to himself than to his audience. “Next time I  _will_  have better luck.”

Takeda has always been willing to be persistent when he needs to be.


	2. Memory

Ukai barely thinks about the request. There are occasionally strange calls that come through, pleas to carry some highly specific item at the store or questions about a particular brand that Ukai’s never heard of; sometimes there are salesmen on the other end of the line when he picks up, and occasionally calls from people in town Ukai’s never met asking after his grandfather’s health. It can be something of a weight to be the grandson of such a popular man; one day, after receiving four calls in a row asking about ‘Coach Ukai’s health,’ Ukai had to wonder if he will ever achieve such widespread affection from so many people. Yesterday’s call -- premised on his grandfather’s accomplishments but asking for him -- is a first, but Ukai doesn’t think about it much after he sets the receiver down. There’s no point, not when he’s refused, not when he has no interest in the proposal being laid out. So he leaves the receiver where he set it, and gets back to work closing up the shop, and doesn’t think about it again. By the time he wakes the next morning, he’s forgotten all about the strange, sudden request and the voice making it.

That night, the phone rings while he’s restocking the cup ramen.

The sound isn’t that startling in itself. It’s that the mechanical clatter of the sound overlays Ukai’s memory with the present, pulling up the recollection of the night before with such clarity it seems impossible that he forgot it even for a day. Ukai frowns at the shelf in front of him, shakes his head to clear it of the weight of the thought, and by the time he’s walked across the store to reach the phone he’s talked himself out of any expectation. He refused, after all, there’s no reason for his stomach to be dipping like it’s in freefall, no reason for the electric-strain of expectation that unwinds over his skin.

“Hello?” Ukai says into the receiver.

“Ukai-kun?” comes that voice, and Ukai can feel the shiver of reaction run all through his body, can feel it unwind over his skin like he’s had a sudden chill. “It’s Takeda Ittetsu, we spoke on the phone yesterday.”

“I remember,” Ukai says, feeling the words turn into a growl on his tongue.

“You do?” Takeda says, and he sounds delighted, as if Ukai has capitulated on something far more important than remembering the sound of his voice. “That’s good, I wanted to speak to you about the same subject.”

Ukai can feel his forehead creasing, his brows drawing together to form a line of strain between them. “I already said no.”

“Ah, yes, I know.” Takeda sounds apologetic, the words spilling fast like he can keep Ukai on the line if he speaks quickly enough. He has a nice voice, even if he sounds a little shrill with haste; he doesn’t sound anything like what his age must be. “I was hoping you might have a few minutes to speak with me regarding the volleyball club in general.”

“I’m not involved with Karasuno volleyball anymore,” Ukai says, but he doesn’t hang up.

“I know!” Takeda says. Ukai can almost picture his hands waving to sweep aside Ukai’s protests, to hold the other where he is via energetic gestures. “I just wanted to gain some insight into the club since I’m so new.”

“You’re new?” Ukai asks. That would explain why he’s sure he’s never heard Takeda’s voice before, why he can’t call up a face for the name when he makes the effort. “And you’re acting as a faculty advisor right off the bat?”

“Ah, yes. The club was in need of one and I was happy to take on the responsibility.”

“You got yourself drafted, you mean,” Ukai says, and he’s grinning, he can feel amusement tugging at his lips and framing itself to laughter under his voice. “I can’t help you there, sensei.”

“Of course not!” Takeda says, sounding shocked, and Ukai grins wider as he reaches into his pocket to fish out a cigarette. “I’m happy to do it, and I’m learning a lot!”

“Yeah,” Ukai drawls. The cigarette braces between his lips, the phone braces at his shoulder; he finds his lighter, holds the cigarette in place while he flicks it to an open flame and raises the fire to the end of the cigarette. “Have you ever played volleyball?”

“No,” Takeda admits immediately. “But I’m ready to learn! I’ve been speaking with the students and the club manager and I have several reference books I’ve been perusing.”

“You’re learning volleyball from a  _book_?” Ukai asks. He takes an inhale off his cigarette, feels the smoke burn against the back of his throat and through his nose. “You really do need a coach.”

“That’s why I’m calling you,” Takeda says, relief audible in his voice, and Ukai flinches too late to stop himself from walking into the conclusion. “Since your grandfather left the club has been struggling, and I believe your presence would be extremely beneficial!”  
“You mean the presence of my name,” Ukai says, pulling the cigarette from his lips and crushing it out even though he’s barely started it. “You want Coach Ukai back with the team.”

“Your name  _would_  make things significantly easier for me,” Takeda admits. “But you also have experience with the sport from your high school years. Your insight would be invaluable to both myself and the team.”

“I just played,” Ukai says, the words flat, any emotional weight they might have carried stripped clean to leave only strict honesty on his tongue. “I don’t know anything about how to coach. I only ever saw the games from the other side.”

“You have vastly more experience than I do,” Takeda continues, apparently entirely unfazed by the edge Ukai can hear grating in the back of his throat,  _rejection_  stamped clear on every sound he makes. “Even just for a few weeks, or as you are available, anything you are able to offer us would be immensely helpful.”

“I’m not available,” Ukai says, pushing his cigarette harder against the ashtray until the paper tears and spills unburnt tobacco. “I work in the evenings, I don’t have time to coach a volleyball team.”

“I beg you to reconsider.” Takeda’s tone is pleading, is desperate, but there’s a edge behind it, a force like an oncoming train that refuses to be moved. “I feel you are precisely the person we need to bring the team together.”

“I’m not interested.” Ukai breaks the words apart along the gaps between them, feels them fall into the weight of absolute sincerity on his tongue. “Your feeling is wrong, sensei.”

“I don’t believe it is,” Takeda says, and there’s that weight still behind it, complete determination stripped of even the vestige of pleading. “You are the right person for the job.”

“I’m not,” Ukai says. “Have a good night.”

“I will be calling again,” Takeda tells him. “Good night, Ukai-kun.”

Ukai hangs up the phone. His heart is pounding in his chest, his pulse rushing on the adrenaline of the not-quite-confrontation; when he pulls his hand away from the receiver his fingers are shaking very slightly. He can’t steady them until he forms his hand into a fist and pushes it into his pocket.

With Takeda’s promise still in his ears, Ukai doesn’t think he’s likely to forget the call this time.


	3. Concentrated

Takeda waits to call until late in the evening. It’s a minor inconvenience for him, hardly one at all given how late the team’s practice tends to run, and given that he knows Ukai works evenings at the store it seems the fastest way to get in touch with the person he wants. Tonight he’s ready before Ukai even picks up the phone, is hunched in over his desk with words prepped to spill from his lips before he’s heard the receiver on the other end click into action.

“Sakanoshita--”

“Ukai-kun,” Takeda blurts over the familiar rumble of the other giving his standard greeting. “I’m begging you to reconsider.”

There’s a sigh, a heavy one; Takeda can almost feel it through the phone receiver, imagines he can sense the rush of the air against his ear as if Ukai were in the room with him. “Sensei,” and it’s not a greeting, precisely, as much as it is a statement, resignation to the next few minutes of conversation. “I’ve told you I’m not interested.”

“I know,” Takeda says. “I know you’re not, but I’m begging you. There’s no one else who can do the job, Ukai-kun, I need your help.”

“I already have a job.” There’s a pause from the other end of the line, a rustle of sound and the click of metal; when Ukai breathes out it’s as a sigh more satisfied than resigned. “There’s a reason I’m not looking for another, I hardly have time to sleep as it is.”

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Takeda acknowledges, apology lacing the determination under his tone. “I wouldn’t be bothering you with it if we had any other options to pursue.”

“Thanks,” Ukai drawls. “You really know how to flatter a guy into agreement.”

“I don’t mean it as an insult,” Takeda protests. “You’re the top choice for the position. You would be ideal for the team, Ukai-kun, and an invaluable asset for me.”

“You’re real sure of yourself.” There’s another pause, an audible inhale followed by a rush of air against the phone. “What happened to ‘I feel’ like you said the first time?”

“I’ve been investigating other possibilities,” Takeda says, which is true, even if none of the others have sparked his interest as the rough voice on the other end of the line has, even if he took the rejection from the other sources as unassailable in a way he has not with Ukai. “I am confident now that you are the best resource for the team as well as the only one likely to assist us.”

“You should rework your calculations, sensei,” Ukai drawls into the line. His voice is like smoke, like gravel, shuddering down the line like static turned into heat; Takeda can feel the resonance of it like a tangible touch against his skin. “I’m not the one you want for this and I’m not going to give in just because you call a couple times.”

Takeda sets his jaw and flattens his hand against the pad of paper on his desk, pressing his fingers down against the numbers he can recite from memory by now. “I don’t intend to give up, Ukai-kun. You  _are_  the right man for the job, and I will continue asking until I can persuade you of the same.”

Ukai’s laugh is startling. It trembles down the line, flashes heat down Takeda’s spine; he’s still blinking in shock at the sound when Ukai collects himself enough to stutter the initial spill of response into control again.

“You’re gonna be calling a long time, sensei.” The words are softer than they were, stripped of the edge of irritation they claimed initially to purr over the soft edge of laughter instead. Ukai breaks the title down the middle, turns it into two separate sounds instead of one; it sounds teasing, like a nickname made specifically for Takeda instead of the general appellation it is.

“I will,” Takeda says, firm and certain on the statement. “I’ll keep calling for weeks, if I have to.”

“Yeah?” Ukai’s laughing again; Takeda can hear the grin straining under his voice, can imagine the lopsided tilt of his smile from the sound of his amusement crackling through the phone speaker. “I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time. I don’t coach. You’d be better off pestering my granddad, even  _he’s_ more likely to give in.”

“I was told your grandfather had retired.”

“He has.” There’s another pause, another rush of air in a deliberate exhale. “And he’d be a lot more likely to just hang up on you. But I’m not going to crack just for a few phone calls.”

“Well.” Takeda takes a breath, squares his shoulders. “I’ll just have to find out what  _will_  persuade you.”

“Good luck,” Ukai tells him. “I don’t think there’s anything that could convince me to do it.”

Takeda tips his head back, feels determination steady along his spine, against his fingers, in the set of his jaw. “I’m sure something can,” he says, even his voice dropping lower with the calm of absolute confidence. “I just need to find it.”

“You make it sound like a threat,” Ukai says, but he’s grinning, still, amusement clear enough to be audible over the interference of the phone line. “Take it easy, sensei, it’s just a club.”

“It is not,” Takeda says, and he can feel his voice turning over in his chest, rolling itself into strength in his veins and certainty on his tongue. “It’s the dreams of the entire team, of all the members of the club coming together in pursuit of a single goal. It’s their effort in practice every day and the culmination of their shared exertions.” He takes a breath, tastes adrenaline on his tongue and crackling into his veins like electricity, like there is something taking control of his throat to speak on his behalf. “It is  _not_  just a club.”

There’s a pause, a breath of silence ringing into the gap of the phone line. It’s enough time for Takeda’s surge of adrenaline to flicker and fade, to turn itself inside-out into the clammy shiver of self-consciousness instead of an unbreakable wall of certainty. His hand eases on the table, his fingers curling in on his palm as his shoulders tip forward, and when he speaks again his voice is softer, more his own and less that of his conviction using him as a mouthpiece.

“That’s why they need a coach,” he says down towards the table, staring unseeing at the clutter of pages in front of him, ungraded tests and half-drafted assignments and that one handwritten note on top of it all. “I don’t know anything at all about volleyball.”

Ukai clears his throat, a gruff rumble of sound on the other end of the line. “I dunno,” he says. “Sounds to me like you understand the important part.” Takeda huffs a laugh, feeling his cheeks go hot with embarrassment; he can imagine Ukai grinning at him even before the other speaks again. “Guess I’ll be hearing from you again, then?”

“Ah.” Takeda clears his throat and lifts his head, straightening his glasses needlessly. “That’s correct.”

“Not much point in saying goodbye, then,” Ukai says. “Talk to you tomorrow, sensei.”

“Right,” Takeda says. “Goodnight, Ukai-kun.”

His flush -- and his smile -- linger well after he’s hung up the phone.


	4. Persistent

Karasuno needs a coach.

Ukai knows they do. Even without the developing routine of the nightly calls requesting that he take on the position, he knows it’s true. His memories of the volleyball club are hazy in his mind, sweet at the edges with nostalgia and gold-filtered out of any of the physical exertion he knows was there, but what he remembers is of their coach and his teammates, maybe interactions with a few of his more dramatic rivals. He can barely recall the face of their faculty advisor, can’t pull up the man’s name at all; he can’t imagine the advisor trying to fill the role of coach as well, least of all without any knowledge of the sport. He is well aware of the lack Karasuno must be feeling right now, can see evidence of it even in the food the team members pick out at the store; they’re not eating the right things to build the muscle they need, and they don’t have anyone who knows better to tell them otherwise. _He_ knows, he could tell them, could step up and take charge to fill the absence he can see even without the confirmation of Takeda’s phone calls or the half-heard conversations of the members themselves. But he doesn’t, he can’t, he has a job and he has a life and he definitely, _definitely_ isn’t going to go back in time to relive the days of his youth. Ukai knows well enough what will happen to that gold filter if he looks at it too closely, and he is _not_ interested in recalling the true reality of his high school experience.

The phone ringing jars him out of this line of thinking. He’s grateful to the distraction, pleased to have been pulled from himself by the demands of the moment; it’s a relief to stand up from the slouch he’s been sustaining over the front desk to walk to the phone as the sound of the ringer clears his thoughts of the haze of memory. It’s good to feel like himself again, to remember who he has become without thinking about what he might have been, and he sounds entirely himself by the time he’s raised the receiver to offer “Hello, Sakanoshita Store” into the speaker.

There’s a tiny sound, the gasp of a startled inhale on the other end of the line, and Ukai knows the sound of that voice even before Takeda manages the coherency of “Ukai-kun?” Ukai can feel his regained complacency melt like frost before the morning sun, can feel his body go warm with a sudden surge of adrenaline, and Takeda is talking, apparently taking his silence as confirmation of his identity. “It’s Takeda Ittetsu, calling about the Karasuno volleyball team.”

Ukai breathes out, hard, the sound huffing frustration at Takeda for calling, at himself for reacting, at the heat that is spreading up his spine to chase away the calm he had mostly managed to recapture. “You again?”

“Ah,” Takeda says at the other end of the line. “Yes. Is this a bad time?”

“I’m at work,” Ukai reminds him, even though the store is empty and likely to remain so for the next fifteen minutes at least. “And I’ve already told you no.”

“I’d like to persuade you otherwise,” Takeda says, sounding as certain in himself as if this is the first time Ukai has refused him and not going on the dozenth. “This team has the potential to be excellent, if they just have the right person to train them.”

“No,” Ukai says, ignoring the lilt of Takeda’s voice, definitely _not_ paying attention to the way the other’s tone is catching breathless on his insistence of the team’s ability. “I don’t coach. I’ve _never_ coached. Why haven’t you found someone _else_ by now?”

“I’ve been following up on a lead,” Takeda says, the words sounding so much like sincerity that they stall Ukai’s expectations into shock and still the hand he has reaching for a much-needed cigarette. “I believe I’ve been making some progress, though he’s resistant to the idea.”

Ukai huffs the outline of a laugh into the receiver. “Cute,” he says in a tone that implies the opposite. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that. But I’m stubborn, sensei, I’m not going to give in just because you call a few times.”

“I’ll continue calling,” Takeda says, like he always does, as intensely and calmly as if he really means it, as if he’ll keep calling for years if Ukai fails to capitulate before then. “All I’m requesting is that you come to the school for one day. Just a few hours, just to see the way the team plays. Their potential is remarkable.”

“How do you know that?” Ukai growls, hearing irritation in his voice and too busy fighting with the strain across his shoulders to smooth his tone to something more polite. “I’m sure they’re good at volleyball, what makes you so certain they’re something more than decent?”

“I’ve been watching videos,” Takeda informs him, certain in his resistance in spite of the polite framework of his words. “Of tournaments, and of professional matches. This team has something special.”

Ukai takes another inhale, sighs himself into something approaching calm. When he rolls his shoulders he can feel the tension ease out of them, the initial frustration with this worn-out conversation relaxing into resignation. “You work all day and you attend the team practices and _then_ you watch videos too?” He slides a cigarette free of the box liberated from his pocket, catches the end of it between his lips. “Don’t you ever _sleep_ , sensei?”

“It’s fine,” Takeda insists on the other end of the line, his voice dipping into the low slur of insisted comfort, like he’s trying to reassure Ukai. Ukai’s hand stills halfway to replacing his cigarettes in his pocket, his attention focusing in on the sound of Takeda’s words only slightly interrupted by the static. “I get enough rest, I’m taking care of myself. I couldn’t get sick and leave the team without an advisor.”

Ukai huffs another laugh, finishes the movement to replace his cigarettes in the pocket of his jeans. “You make it sound like your whole life revolves around the team,” he says around the weight of the cigarette at his lips. “Doesn’t your family miss you?”

“My family?” Takeda asks, sounding as sincerely confused as if Ukai has just veered the conversation into a non-sequitur.

“Yeah.” Ukai finds his lighter in his back pocket, retrieves it so he can set the flame to the end of his cigarette. “Or does your wife like volleyball too?”

“My…” Takeda trails off into silence for a moment. It’s the first time Ukai can recall him at a loss for words. “ _Oh_.” He coughs, clears his throat. The sound turns to a rush of static, the hiss of it still hanging in Ukai’s ears when Takeda speaks again. “I’m not married.” A burble of laughter, high and sharp-edged with what sounds like nerves, even if Ukai’s never heard that particular strain over the clear sound of the other’s voice before. “I suppose that makes it easier to focus on the team, at least.”

“Sure,” Ukai says, because he wants to ask for more information but doesn’t trust his voice. It’s stupid, anyway, he knows it is; Takeda’s probably older than Ukai’s father, in spite of that voice that sounds like it could belong to one of the students on the team. Ukai clears his throat, takes an inhale of smoke to settle the frantic adrenaline trying to prickle itself into existence in his veins. “Guess that explains the evening calls.”

“I apologize,” Takeda says, sounding sincerely sorry even though Ukai knows he’s not. “It seems the best opportunity to contact you.”

“It’s better than--” Ukai starts, and then the jingle of a bell cuts off his train of thought. He turns around, looking back to the door where one of his regular customers has just come in, and lifts a hand in an apologetic greeting.

“Evening,” he calls, barely tugging the phone away from his mouth. “Be with you in a sec.”

“I should let you get back to work,” Takeda volunteers before Ukai has even had a chance to set his cigarette aside in the ashtray. “My apologies for the interruption.”

“You’re just going to call again tomorrow,” Ukai reminds him. “You shouldn’t say you’re sorry for something you know you’ll do again.”

“Ah,” Takeda says. Ukai can almost imagine the blank expression on the other’s face, can picture the startled flutter of eyelashes that must come with that sound. “Yes. You’re right.” He takes a breath, deliberate and deep enough that Ukai can hear the drag of the air through the phone speaker. “I’ll speak to you tomorrrow, Ukai-kun.”

“I know,” Ukai sighs. “Night, sensei.”

He’s still irritated when he hangs up the phone, still prickly from the interruption and the distraction and the effort required to push back the adrenaline in his veins into something approaching calm. He can’t explain, then, why it is that he’s smiling as he comes down the aisle to join the customer, any more than he can explain why the smile lingers for an hour after and refuses to be chased away.

There’s something to be said for persistence.


	5. Encouragement

Takeda isn’t ready for this.

His suit feels awkward on his shoulders; the unusual formality of his clothes presses against his body like the folds are trying to crease his body into the right shape to fit in them instead of the other way around. He know he looks professional, knows he checked his tie three times in the bathroom mirror at the school before he left, but he still has the urge to pause at the dark windows of the shop a block down from the convenience store to adjust it again, to pull his coat straighter on his shoulders, to make one last hopeless attempt to get his hair to lie smooth on his head. But he can see light spilling from the windows a few steps away, and he _knows_ he’s fine, knows that stopping to check again would be surrender to self-consciousness that he doesn’t need right now, not when he’s about to walk into a confrontation no less intimidating for how familiar the framework of it is.

So he doesn’t stop. He keeps walking instead, a steady, measured pace that entirely belies the way his heart is pounding harder with panic and the way the air seems to be going thinner with every step, and he’s not ready for this but he’s reaching out for the door anyway and dragging the weight of the glass sideways and open.

The store is nearly empty. That’s a relief; it means Takeda won’t have an audience for this conversation, regardless of how well or poorly it goes. There’s just empty aisles, the bright white lighting overhead casting faint shadows across the clean floor, and a man at the counter tipping forward to hunch over the surface with a haste Takeda’s teacher-trained eyes identify immediately as telltale of guilt. There’s the smell of smoke in the air, the drag and bite of nicotine heavy in the enclosed space, and Takeda realizes the man is crushing out what must have been a half-finished cigarette into an ashtray tucked under the edge of the counter.

“Welcome,” he says without looking up, and something in Takeda’s chest drops, all the air he’s managed to win back from the strain of adrenaline absenting itself from his lungs in a tiny, soundless rush. “Looking for anything in particular?”

Takeda’s head is spinning. Ukai’s voice is softer in person without the grating influence of the necessary static that comes with a phone line, or maybe it’s just politeness getting the better of him before he knows, yet, who Takeda is. His hair is longer than it was in the old team photographs, much longer, drawn back off his forehead by a pair of dark bands, and it’s bleached blond and shining yellow in the store lights. Between that and the cigarette Takeda’s mental conception of Ukai is reeling, desperately attempting to reform itself around this new aspect, and then Ukai lifts his head and meets his eyes and Takeda’s voice goes the way of his heart as any possibility of speech entirely evaporates. Because the eyes are the same, dark and level and steady as a rock, and suddenly everything -- the drawn-back yellow hair, the smell of smoke, the too-soft voice -- everything reorients itself into _Ukai_ , the same person Takeda’s been speaking to every night for weeks, and the sudden familiarity is more than his coherency can handle.

Ukai blinks at him. His gaze drops from Takeda’s face, skims down along the line of his coat and the creases of his pants before swinging back up to linger a moment at the knot of the tie at his throat. Takeda can see his eyes go just a little wider, just a little softer, and for a wild moment he thinks Ukai somehow recognizes him after all, although there’s no way he could, as if some kind of telepathy has informed him of Takeda’s name and purpose without the necessity of words. Ukai leans back in his chair, tips himself into an unconcerned slouch; his mouth tenses, the corner curving up into a smile as he relaxes in his chair.

“Evening,” he says, and that is _precisely_ the same voice from the phone, Takeda can feel the rumble of the syllables shudder down his spine and shake in his knees. “There anything I can help you with?”

That answers that, at least. Whatever Ukai’s smile is for, it’s not for Takeda, and it’s not for his mission. The rush of disappointment is as bracing as cold water, forces strength into the tremble of Takeda’s shoulders and the weakness  out of his knees, and when he lifts his chin into certainty the motion brings his voice back with it.

“There is.” His voice is shaking, quivering like a tree in a high wind, but Takeda sets his jaw and forces himself to continue, pushing the words past the knot of nerves in his throat. “I’m here to talk to you about coaching the Karasuno volleyball team.”

Ukai’s smile vanishes. For a moment he’s left staring at Takeda, his expression as utterly blank as if he has forgotten they are having a conversation, as if he has forgotten how to speak at all. His gaze slides down again, tracing out its original route with far greater speed, like he’s trying to remind himself of Takeda’s very presence. He looks back at Takeda’s face for a moment, his lips parted on shock and his eyes so wide he looks nearly frightened; then his forehead creases, his mouth closes into a frown, and shock is eclipsed neatly with irritation.

“You’re Takeda-sensei.” It’s not a question. It feels almost like an accusation, as if Takeda has done something unforgivable by allowing Ukai to go for even a heartbeat without knowing who he is.

Takeda bobs his head in a nod. “Yes, I am.”

Ukai ducks his head. The movement hides his eyes, leaves Takeda to stare at the catch of light off the yellow of his hair and the odd forward hunch of his shoulders as if he’s bracing for a blow. “I was wondering why you hadn’t called.”

“I hoped I might be more persuasive in person,” Takeda says to the top of Ukai’s bowed head. His heart is pounding at the inside of his chest like it’s trying to break free, his ears are ringing, but he’s still talking, offering words like an apology while Ukai pulls a box of cigarettes from his pocket. “I can return later, if this is a bad time.”

“It’s not going to get better.” Ukai lights the cigarette without looking up at Takeda, turns away to breathe smoke towards the back of the shop instead of in Takeda’s direction. It’s a thoughtful motion, Takeda supposes, but right now the angle of his shoulders feels like rejection. “You might as well say whatever it is you’re going to say now.”

Takeda takes a breath, takes a step forward. The distance to the counter feels impossibly long, feels absurdly short; every step brings Ukai closer, brings the details of his existence into sharper focus. His hair is catching at the hood of his orange sweater. It looks paler by comparison.

“I’d like you to coach the Karasuno volleyball team,” Takeda says, the words familiar in meaning but new in presentation, quivering in his throat like he’s forgotten how to speak, like he’s forgotten how to breathe. He takes an inhale, deep and deliberate in an attempt to steady his nerves. Ukai reaches out for the back counter in the pause, slides the weight of a volume of manga towards him like he can’t be bothered to listen to what Takeda is saying. It’s purposefully insulting, Takeda knows, and it’s clearly intended as such, but what would have been crushing in other circumstances is a relief here. It’s helpful to know Ukai isn’t paying attention to him, to know that he has no audience at all and must make himself heard if he is to be considered; this Takeda knows how to do, this is what he’s good at. When he takes another breath it comes easier, unwinds some of the knot in his chest. “I know I’m being stubborn, but I’m begging you. I’m inexperienced and pathetically inadequate, but those boys have wonderful potential.”

Ukai reaches out, stretching over the counter to tap ash off the end of his cigarette. He’s still not looking at Takeda. With his head turned Takeda can see the indents of piercings against his ear, the faint marks of absent earrings against the skin. He wonders, very briefly, if Ukai ever wears them anymore. “Please be their coach, Ukai-kun.”

Ukai takes a breath off the cigarette, exhales slow; when he twists to look back over his shoulder he’s frowning, his brows drawn in dark over his eyes. “You sure are persistent, sensei.” His voice dips over the last word, dragging it long and humming in the air; Takeda’s skin prickles into heat at the familiarity of it, the lilt that makes the title almost a taunt, almost an endearment.

“That’s the only thing I’m good at.” It’s an easy admission, one Takeda came to terms with long ago; there’s no resistance to making the capitulation on this point he knows far better than Ukai does. If he can only be good at one thing, at least this one is versatile.

Ukai looks away again. “Being tenacious won’t get me to coach them.” He doesn’t sound angry as much as insistent, drawling the words into resistance Takeda recognizes from their phone conversations. “My granddad was a coach, but I’m not cut out for it.” There’s a rustle of pages as Ukai shuts the volume in his hands and reaches out to set it aside. When he speaks again his voice is soft, almost apologetic with understanding as he turns to look back over his shoulder at Takeda. “Sensei, I know you want a technical instructor, but what you’re really after is the illustrious name of ‘Ukai.’”

“Frankly, there is that, too.” The words come easy on this, too, propelled forward past Takeda’s lips on relief, on the dregs of adrenaline in his veins, on the need to reiterate his points as if Ukai hasn’t heard them all before, as if maybe they’ll carry more weight spoken in person. “Ever since Coach Ukai retired, our school gradually fell behind other schools.” Ukai isn’t looking at him anymore but Takeda is still talking, carried forward on inertia even as his throat tightens on the desperation for assistance, for an advantage, for any help at all to win him success. “This year I was hired to fill the hole he had left, but I can’t even get other schools to agree to practice matches.”

“You think my illustrious name would turn things around?” Ukai’s not even looking at him, not even turning; his shoulders are giving his answer before he has. If Takeda were someone else, he would take this answer and go, would give up on his hope for the sake of politeness.

He leans forward, drops into a bow even though Ukai isn’t looking at him. “I implore you, Ukai-kun.”

“I refuse.” It’s fast, immediate; when Takeda glances up Ukai hasn’t even turned. “I acknowledge your commitment, but I don’t want to babysit a bunch of pesky high schoolers.”

Takeda has his answer. He straightens, feeling his spine stiffen with determination like it always does in moments like these, as if the fact of rejection is only another means to solidify his own certainty. “I’ll be back,” he says, and his voice doesn’t shake at all.

He’s nearly to the door by the time Ukai growls himself into coherency behind him. “What part of ‘I refuse’ don’t you understand?”

Takeda stares at the mirrored night-dark of the store door. “I’m sorry for being so persistent,” he says to his reflection, says to the determination he can see behind the weight of his glasses. When he turns around he’s smiling, can feel certainty so strong in him it’s nearly as good as Ukai’s agreement would have been. “But you’ll understand if you see those boys play.”  
Ukai is staring at him. His eyes are wide, his mouth open; he looks like he did when Takeda first came in, as if the last few minutes of their conversation never happened at all. Takeda folds forward by a few inches, offering another small bow, and turns back to reach for the handle of the door.

“I don’t care how many times you ask,” Ukai shouts after him, his voice pitching loud for Takeda to hear. “I’m not doing it!”

It’s strange how much that sounds like encouragement.


	6. Sight

Ukai wasn’t expecting a customer.

It’s been a slow night even for the evening shift, which often goes hours with less than a dozen customers coming through the front door. Tonight has been so quiet Ukai’s read through the entire manga volume he brought with him and is considering a reread now, just for the sake of having something to do to pass the time until the store closes in an hour. He’s been turning the idea over in his head, knocking it against the weight of boredom bearing down on him while he starts a new cigarette, and he’s just about decided to flip through the issue again when there’s movement in the shadows outside the shop door, the shape of a person coalescing from the dark as they reach for the handle to pull the door open.

“Shit,” Ukai hisses, ducking his head into a futile attempt at disguise while he pulls the cigarette from his lips and reaches to crush it out into the ashtray. It’s a bad habit, he knows, and one he definitely shouldn’t indulge in while he’s manning the store, but it’s a distraction, too, a way to pass the time when it stretches long between customers. He pushes the glowing ember against the resistance of the ashtray, grinds it to dark with a faint hissing protest from the flame as it goes out just as the door squeaks open.

“Welcome,” Ukai says without looking up; he can feel telltale embarrassment staining his cheeks and doesn’t trust himself to make eye contact until he has the surge of adrenaline that has hit him at the unexpected company under control. When he takes a breath it’s deliberately slow, drawn long so it presses taut against his ribcage; when he lets it out it takes his burst of nervousness with it, leaving him calm enough to slide into his professional facade as he looks up. “Looking for anything in particular?” And then Ukai sees the customer, and any regained calm evaporates along with the last of his breath.

There’s a man standing just inside the doorway of the shop. He looks awkward, his hands clasped in front of himself in a way that makes him look like a supplicant for a favor instead of a casual late-night customer, the suit framing his shoulders well-fitted but obviously uncomfortably unfamiliar for the individual wearing it. His eyes are wide behind the frames of oversized glasses, his mouth barely open in what looks like shock; Ukai can see the dark of the other’s lashes even from a distance, can see the way they flutter and catch on each other when the stranger blinks. His eyes are gold, catching illumination from the harsh overhead light and turning it into something warm and soft and sweet, and Ukai’s attention is sliding down, lingering on narrow shoulders, delicate fingers, the slight inward tilt of knees, taking in all of the other before he undoes his own consideration, backtracking up the angle of tension in the other’s wrists and the painfully neat lines of his coat to the dark of the tie fixed over his white shirt. The collar is pulled high, the knot of the tie cinched close to the fabric; Ukai can see him swallow, can see his throat work over the clasp of cloth at his skin, and he can feel himself go hot in a rush, his skin prickling itself into a simmer of desire at the way the stranger’s lips part on the rush of his exhale.

Ukai pushes away from his hunch over the counter, lets the purr of appreciation under his skin unwind into languid comfort in his seat. When he tips his head it’s on the urging of the appreciation in his thoughts, and when he quirks his mouth it’s into a grin, the very best one he can muster for the other’s bright eyes and soft mouth.

“Evening,” he offers, letting the word turn over on itself in his throat until it’s purring into resonance against the inside of his chest, until the heat of the sound on his lips tastes like seduction and shadow to match the angle of his smile. “There anything I can help you with?” The tone of his voice turns the neutral sentence into suggestion, layers the offer with innuendo; it’s subtle enough for plausible deniability, Ukai is sure, but coupled with his smile he’s hoping it will make his point.

The other’s expression tenses for a moment, his mouth dropping into the soft of disappointment, as if Ukai has thrown him out of the shop instead of flirting with him. Ukai has a moment to be curious, a heartbeat to wonder what he did wrong, and then: “There is,” the stranger says, and everything in Ukai’s head goes still. “I’m here to talk to you about coaching the Karasuno volleyball team.”

Ukai can feel his stomach drop, can feel all his sense of gravity swing up and away like he’s lost his connection to the earth. It’s not the statement, not when the request is one he’s become skilled at dodging with the practice of the last few weeks; it’s the voice that goes with it, the breathless shape of the words in a voice too familiar to mistake coming from -- Ukai’s attention drops, drags out over the clean slacks, the neat tie, the pale throat and the soft lips, reevaluating the man standing in front of him who is far younger and _far_ more attractive than Ukai has let himself contemplate even in his weakest moments.

“You’re Takeda-sensei,” he says, and the purring heat from his voice is gone, stripped away to make space for the flat statement of reality. Ukai’s heart is pounding in his chest, thrumming adrenaline against the inside of his ribcage in time with his rising panic.

Takeda’s head dips. The light slides into the soft dark of his hair. “Yes, I am.”

 _Oh no_.

Ukai turns his chin down, hides his expression in as much shadow as he can manage; he doesn’t know what’s on his face, doesn’t want to leave himself an open book when he doesn’t know what Takeda might read from his eyes. His skidding thoughts trip sideways, recall the last few hours of work without the usual interruption of the phone, and there’s a knot in his chest, hysteria pressing the threat of laughter into his voice. “I was wondering why you hadn’t called” and that’s an admission greater than he intended but he can’t call it back now, there’s no way to backtrack over the implications of that statement. He can feel his cheeks go hot, hopes desperately that the shadows will disguise him sufficiently to leave his reaction unnoticed.

“I hoped I might be more persuasive in person,” Takeda says, and Ukai has to press his lips together to fight back the disbelieving laughter that threatens at how stunningly astute this particular hope is. “I can return later, if this is a bad time.”

“It’s not going to get better,” Ukai says with his head still bowed. It’s easier to handle the lilt of Takeda’s voice without matching it to his face, easier to bear the inevitable heat that runs through Ukai with every word if he can pretend he doesn’t know, now, how soft the eyes and mouth that go with it are. His hands have followed the nervous habit of seeking out his cigarettes and working one free; it beckons like salvation, offers the assistance of familiar distraction to pull his thoughts away from the shift of Takeda’s throat when he swallows and the careful fit of his fingers interlaced with each other. The paper catches from the lighter, hopefully quickly enough that Takeda won’t notice how badly Ukai’s hands are shaking, and the first exhale of smoke gives Ukai an excuse to turn away, to pivot to face the back of the shop and save himself from the distraction of sight. “You might as well say whatever it is you’re going to say now.”

There’s a pause. For a long, terrifying moment Ukai is afraid Takeda is going to comment on the flush across his cheeks, or his deliberate flirtation, or the way his hands are shaking even when he tries to steady them. Worse: that he will leave, that the next thing Ukai will hear will be the shop door shutting without another word. But then there’s a breath, the sound of a man bracing himself for a fight, and “I’d like you to coach the Karasuno volleyball team.”

Ukai’s relief is a painful thing, so strong in his veins he has to shut his eyes to it for a moment, and if it is more for Takeda’s continued presence than for his own escape from commentary he doesn’t think about it long enough to admit such. It’s easier to breathe, now, easier to take a calming inhale from the end of his cigarette; Ukai holds it for a moment, reaches for the abandoned manga volume while Takeda continues speaking. “I know I’m being stubborn, but I’m begging you.” Ukai’s hands are steadying under the weight of the book. When he reaches out to tap his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray they almost don’t shake at all. Takeda is still talking, his voice dipping into the range of pleading that Ukai can feel like raw heat in his veins. “I’m inexperienced and pathetically inadequate, but those boys have wonderful potential. Please be their coach, Ukai-kun.”

Ukai inhales a lungful of smoke, lets it hum in his thoughts while his heartbeat steadies and slows. By the time he exhales he is almost calm, has achieved something like peace as he twists in his chair to risk looking at Takeda again. “You sure are persistent, _sensei_.” He doesn’t intend the way his voice skids on the last word -- it’s habit formed from too many phone calls, amplified by the way his gaze slides helplessly to the pale of Takeda’s throat -- but Takeda doesn’t comment, doesn’t so much as blink at the sound.

“That’s the only thing I’m good at,” is all he says, still watching Ukai with so much fixed attention Ukai has to look away again, has to stare at the safety of the bare wall behind him while he retreats from the heat that flares through him.

“Being tenacious won’t get me to coach them,” he says, because it doesn’t matter how attractive Takeda is (very), and it doesn’t matter how young he is ( _so_ young, he can’t possibly be much older than Ukai himself), and it doesn’t matter how much better his voice sounds in person than over the phone (softer, sweeter, as liquid as birdsong); Ukai made this decision weeks ago, and if Takeda is persistent he can be stubborn to match. “My granddad was a coach, but I’m not cut out for it.” That helps, that reminder of the true goal, that it’s not Ukai himself but the family relation Takeda is staring at with such determination. “Sensei.” The manga shuts, the weight of it falls to the counter; Ukai’s hands stay steady even after he’s set it down, even when he twists to risk another glance at Takeda. “I know you want a technical instructor, but what you’re really after is the illustrious name of ‘Ukai.’”

Takeda meets his gaze without any sign of flinching. It’s admirable, Ukai thinks, or would if he had any attention to spare from the effort it takes to keep his face composed with the way Takeda is looking at him. “Frankly, there is that too,” Takeda admits, and Ukai’s heartbeat steadies even as some part of him, the foolish part, drops into disappointment at this confirmation. He turns his head, stares back at the wall while Takeda goes on. “Ever since Coach Ukai retired, our school gradually fell behind other schools. This year I was hired to fill the hole he had left, but I can’t even get other schools to agree to practice matches.”

“You think my illustrious name would turn things around?” Ukai can hear the bitterness in his voice, the edge of emotion under that repeated phrase, but the words are said before he has a chance to try to strip them to neutrality.

There’s a shift of fabric, motion in Ukai’s periphery; when he glances back Takeda’s folded into a bow, his head dipped down so all Ukai can see is the dark of his hair and the clean angle of his shoulders. He looks away again. “I implore you, Ukai-kun.”

“I refuse,” Ukai says, immediately, before he can give himself a chance to overthink his answer and before Takeda has a chance to make himself any more persuasive. “I acknowledge your commitment, but I don’t want to babysit a bunch of pesky high schoolers.”

Ukai doesn’t know what he expects. More argument, maybe, another attempt at pleading; at the worst he anticipates silence, Takeda straightening and moving towards the door in final surrender to a lost argument. But when Takeda shifts he doesn’t move away, and when he speaks it’s to say “I’ll be back,” his voice so absolutely certain Ukai goes still and shocked with it. It takes him a moment to react, another to twist around in his chair, and by then Takeda is reaching for the door, his shoulders straighter and steadier than Ukai’s seen him since he came in.

“What part of ‘I refuse’ don’t you understand?” Ukai snaps, tossing the words before he has a chance to think through what he’s saying.

Takeda pauses. “I’m sorry for being so persistent,” he says, even though he doesn’t sound sorry, even though the words sound more like a promise than they do an apology. Then he turns, his eyes going bright with determination as much as with the light, and when he smiles Ukai can feel his heart stutter over its own rhythm. “But you’ll understand if you see those boys play.”

Ukai can’t breathe. Takeda’s smile is too soft, his eyes too bright; for a moment all Ukai can do is stare, helpless to the flush that runs across all his skin and the adrenaline that catches itself into his veins. In the silence Takeda ducks his head into a bow and turns back to the door; it’s not until he’s pushing the weight of it open that Ukai can find breath enough to piece together a reply.

“I don’t care how many times you ask!” he calls, hearing his tone going desperate and wholly unable to restrain it to normalcy. “I’m not doing it!” But Takeda’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and there’s no one to hear Ukai’s insistence except the empty space of the shop. Ukai’s left with a speeding heartbeat, flushed cheeks, and a half-smoked cigarette that is doing nothing at all to calm him now. “Damn it!” He snatches the cigarette from his lips, reaches out to shove it against the ashtray; his heart is still pounding, his thoughts still racing, and he’s in far, far more trouble now than he even knew he could be. He doesn’t realize he’s pushing too hard until the paper of the cigarette tears, until the smouldering ember burns his fingers and forces a yelp of startled pain from his throat.

Even once the pain has faded, it doesn’t calm the adrenaline racing through Ukai’s veins.


	7. Traction

Takeda can’t stop thinking about Ukai.

It was bad enough before, when he had the purring rumble of Ukai’s voice on the other end of the phone line to hold his attention and fire his imagination. Takeda’s stubborn persistence has set in, now, and he had no intention of giving up even before his outing to speak to Ukai directly. But now he has the image of pale-bleached hair in his head, now he knows how Ukai’s voice sounds without the crackle of static laid over it, now he is aware that the dark intensity of the other’s gaze hasn’t faded at all since he was in high school. Takeda’s been doing his best to keep his attention professional -- he’ll only be making things harder on himself if he thinks too long about the shape of Ukai’s mouth or the clean line of his jaw -- but it’s hard to draw the line between his responsibility as the team’s advisor and his own more personal interest, even when he’s doing his best to push aside the latter.

Perhaps that’s why he hasn’t called again. He has nothing new to say, after all, no new argument he can make to sway Ukai to his goal; calling at this point would be at best a thinly veiled excuse to hear the other’s voice again, and with the mental image of Ukai’s face in the back of his head Takeda doesn’t trust himself to hold the appearance of professionalism even via the impersonal medium of a call. He hasn’t given up, far from it -- if anything his personal conflict has only made him more determined to do what’s best for the team, even at the expense of his own good standing with Ukai -- but he needs a lead, needs more traction before he makes his next attempt. So he goes back to well-worn ground, flipping through old school yearbooks for some kind of clue, something to latch onto that could persuade those dark eyes to join Takeda and the rest of the team in the bright lights of the gymnasium each evening. It’s easy to lose track of time amid the fading photographs of students long since graduated, to slide into daydreams of old tournaments and surging hopes, to imagine the current team following the same trajectory through the matches of a tournament to claim a spot in the semi-finals, the finals, to take the lead and prove the talent Takeda can see at practice every night. He’s adrift in this daydream, lost in the invented struggles of past-tense teams and the hypothesized ones of the future, when a voice asks, “Takeda-sensei?” and startles him out of his distraction.

“ _Ah_ ,” he blurts, jerking up from the forward hunch he has over the yearbook in front of him and reaching to adjust his glasses. “Sorry, yes?” There’s a shadow in the doorway, the silhouette of a woman outlined against the frame; Takeda squints, reaching for clarity from the dim lighting in the room. “Mizuki-sensei?”

“I thought it was you.” Mizuki reaches out and the lights come on overhead, flooding the room with a burst of light so bright Takeda has to blink spots from his night-blind eyes. “You forget to turn on the lights again?”

“Ah.” Takeda pulls his glasses off to rub a hand against his watering eyes before pushing them back into place. “It was bright enough to read by when I came in.”

“You’re not doing your eyes any favors,” Mizuki tells him as she crosses the room to lower the drawn-up blinds over the dark of the windows. “Do you ever go home?”

“I do,” Takeda says. “I don’t want to carry the yearbooks out and risk damaging them.”

Mizuki looks over her shoulder at the stack of books laid out in front of Takeda. “Still going over the volleyball records?” she asks. “There’s not much in recent history, you know. The team’s hasn’t been the same since the Little Giant graduated.”

“Were you here?” Takeda asks. “When he was a student?”

“Sure was,” Mizuki says. “My daughter was just graduating when he started. She never cared about any of sports, but come the next year she was showing up at all the volleyball games and cheering herself hoarse. The Karasuno team was quite a phenomenon for a year or two.”

“I hope we can attain that prestige again.” Takeda leans back in his chair, lets the ache in his shoulders that comes of hunching forward over the desk ease into the relief of relaxation. “We have a great team right now, truly.”

“Still looking for a coach?” Mizuki asks, sympathy audible in her voice. “It’s too bad about Coach Ukai retiring. The matches we used to have against Nekoma when he was coaching were something else.”

Takeda looks up at her. Mizuki is looking down at the yearbook, smiling nostalgia at the line of high schoolers in matching uniforms; her expression is gentle, something between the memory of her own youth and the maternal affection that she is always so willing to offer to anyone with whom she comes into contact.

“We had quite a rivalry with them, back in the day,” she says. “I used to think the team got more excited over those practice matches than they did over the official ones.”

“A rivalry,” Takeda repeats, feeling traction catch on his thoughts, testing the edge of friction under his mental fingertips. “With Nekoma, you said?”

“Oh yes,” Mizuki says. She reaches over Takeda’s shoulder, flips forward by a few pages; the yearbook falls open to the touch of her hand, the pages parting like flower petals to the crease made by Takeda’s too-interested touch. Takeda’s gaze drops involuntarily to Ukai’s younger face, to the focus in the eyes looking back at him, but Mizuki doesn’t even glance at the high schooler’s face; she’s reaching past him, casting Ukai’s features into the shadow of disregard as she taps against the older man in the picture, Coach Ukai glaring from the center of the group.

“He and Nekoma’s coach got feisty with each other,” she says, amusement turning her words into the outline of a laugh. “Used to go out for sake every time the schools had a practice match and drink until you could hear the insults from halfway down the block. Always looked like best friends by the end of the night, but then next time they were on the court together it was right back to square one. The teams got into it too; they were always more excited when they were playing Nekoma than any other team.”

Takeda blinks. When he looks back at the page it looks the same as it always has, with the same line of faces made familiar by his own consideration, but he can feel his heart going faster, can feel the adrenaline of hope starting to form itself out of the haze of uncertainty that has gripped him. “This team did?”

Mizuki lifts her hand, considers the line of students on the page. “Sure did,” she says, and then: “Oh yeah, this was the year coach Ukai’s grandson was on the team.” She taps her finger against the number 2 barely visible on the uniform in the picture. “Between him and his granddad they were _fierce_ about Nekoma that year.” She sighs, draws her hand away as she straightens. “Too bad they never got to play in a tournament. Nekoma and Karasuno have been aiming for that for years, now.”

“Really,” Takeda says, his heart pounding into hope against his ribcage. “Maybe Nekoma would be interested in a practice match with our current team.”

Mizuki shrugs. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she allows. “I think old Nekomata is still the coach for them, even though Ukai had to retire. It’d be worth asking if you haven’t already.”

“I haven’t.” Takeda reaches out past the yearbook, stretching for the notepad half-hidden below the stack of books. “I didn’t think to try schools outside the prefecture.”

“That’s a good place to start,” Mizuki tells him, and then, as Takeda reaches for the phone: “It’s getting a little late, Takeda-sensei.”

“What?” Takeda looks up for the clock on the wall; for a moment he can’t make sense of the alignment of the dark arms, his mind refusing to process the reality of the time. “Ah. It is, isn’t it?”

Mizuki pats his shoulder. “Go home, sensei,” she advises. “Get some rest.”

“Right.” Takeda looks down, shakes his head; he reaches for a pen, writes “Nekoma” in clear letters on the notepad as a reminder for tomorrow. “I’ll do that.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Mizuki says, moving back towards her desk to collect a neat stack of papers sitting there. “Good luck getting that practice match.”

“Thank you!” Takeda says. Mizuki waves him off, steadying the papers in her arms as she makes for the door. Takeda watches her go, waits until the door shuts behind her; then he looks back to the still-open textbook, to meet the dare of Ukai’s eyes staring back at him from the page.

“I’ll get a practice match with Nekoma for you,” he says to the photograph. “Then you’ll _have_ to say yes.” And he shuts the textbook with a decisive _snap_ of certainty.


	8. Hypothetical

Takeda doesn’t return.

Ukai can’t make any sense of it. He spent the entire day after Takeda’s visit jumping at every footfall on the sidewalk outside, looking up at the door with as much nervous energy as if he’s about to be caught doing something he shouldn’t. But the store stays empty, filling with nothing but the late-night quiet Ukai has come to expect from this shift, and even when he lingers ten minutes after closing time and stands on the sidewalk checking for any last-minute customers there’s no one and nothing, just the soft purr of nighttime settling around him like it’s mocking him for the over-excited thud of his heart in his chest. In the end he has to admit the impossibility of Takeda returning today and walks the few blocks home in a sour mood that helps give him the irritation to deny that he was hoping for a second visit at all.

There’s nothing the next day either. Ukai is less jumpy, at least, his heart less willing to speed into overdrive at every creak of the door coming open, but there’s also less jittery energy to distract him from the obvious tug of hope in his chest when he sees dark hair out of the corner of his eye or hears a high laugh from the other side of the store windows. He closes on time, only glances down the sidewalk once before heading home, but the knowledge of his own hope is a weight on his shoulders, a burden he has to carry home as surely as if it had physical presence and not just an emotional one. By the time he’s toweling his hair dry after his shower he’s come to unhappy terms with the fact that he’s been looking forward to Takeda’s visit, that he hasn’t been able to do anything else for the distraction in his own mind, and that Takeda apparently doesn’t mean to continue his daily attempts regardless of Ukai’s willingness to accept them.

 _Maybe I chased him off_ , Ukai thinks on the fourth day, smoking his way through his third cigarette of the evening while he stares into the store that has been even quieter than usual. _It’s probably for the best if he did give up._ But he can’t convince himself of his own claim; in the end he crushes the cigarette to ash before he’s finished and tries to read the manga volume stashed under the front counter. He makes it through three chapters before he realizes he’s reading last month’s issue.

He _should_ be relieved. Ukai has been aggressive in his continued refusal; it’s a sign of reason in Takeda that he would finally give up after Ukai rejected him in person as well as via their many phone calls. But he had said he would come back, had said it so steadily Ukai was more than convinced, and there would be no benefit from feigning continued interest in the face of Ukai’s steadfast rejection. It’s possible he found another coach, Ukai contemplates; maybe Takeda was following up on multiple leads, and one of those has come through in the last few days. The idea makes Ukai’s stomach drop, twists unpleasantly against his heart; he doesn’t think about it for long, doesn’t let himself overanalyze his reaction to the suggestion, and the next time a handful of Karasuno players come in he spends too long noticing that they’re still not eating right, determining that if they do have a coach he can’t possibly be very good. Ukai has no coaching experience but at least he knows from personal experience how to feed the endless hunger of a teenage athlete; the tiny redhead is never going to gain any height at all if all he eats are chips and candy. He should be eating as much protein as possible, should be buying the pork buns from the front of the store instead of the foil-wrapped packages from the back, and then Ukai realizes what he’s doing and ducks so far over his manga he doesn’t see the students come up to the counter until they speak to him.

He can’t keep from thinking about it. There’s the whole of Takeda’s last visit to be reviewed, to be turned over and relived in memory until half of it is invention and the rest is threadbare and hazy in Ukai’s mind. Ukai’s sure he didn’t invent the bright of the other’s eyes, even if the soft of his hair in the bright light is probably an exaggeration of his traitorous memory; Takeda’s voice is certain, too, learned so well over the now-absent phone calls that Ukai is sure the clear lilt of it in reality is pure recollection with none of the overenthusiastic additions of his distracted mind. He spends hours staring unseeing across the empty space of the shop, letting his cigarette burn itself out as he forgets to smoke it, lost in the flickering heat in his veins at the memory of the tremble in Takeda’s voice, the shift of his shoulders as he bowed, the bright intensity in his eyes as he turned back at the door of the shop. And worse: Ukai starts thinking about the _team_.

Bad enough when it was Takeda alone, when it was the sound of his voice creeping into the fringes of Ukai’s daydreams or the color of his eyes distracting him to a smile while he’s dusting the shelves, but Ukai has no interest in coaching, no desire at all to travel back to the past-tense knowledge of high school volleyball lodged in his memories. So he can’t explain the attention he has started to pay to the Karasuno team members when they come into the shop, can’t explain the fact that he can recognize a handful of them on sight, now: the redhead easy, bright and bubbling over with enthusiasm, but the tall dark one that trails him like a shadow, too, or the older boy with close-cropped hair and an aggressive tone that reminds Ukai of himself at that age. Sometimes there are others; third-years, Ukai suspects, calm and certain of themselves as they maneuver through the shop, or the tall blond and his freckled friend, who only ever come in in the wake of the rest of the crowd. Ukai catches himself wondering about their positions after they’ve left the shop, trying to determine which of them is the setter, who the spikers, if the small energetic one is the libero his height says he must be even though he speaks to his taller friend as if they are a matched pair of setter and ace. Ukai starts thinking about how to use the blond’s slender height or the third year’s broad shoulders and steady stance, gets caught up in daydreaming about the pattern of matches before the latest visitor has even left the store. It’s a distraction, and not one he wants; by the time the redhead bounces his way up to the front to ask for a handful of pork buns Ukai is scowling at his manga, as frustrated with himself as with the overly-predictable plot of the shounen he’s been following for months.

“Sure,” he says in more of a growl than he intends, and the boy flinches back, his eyes going wide with unsubtle concern at the gruff edge to Ukai’s voice. Ukai grimaces at himself, turns back to collect the buns. “How many?”

“Three,” the kid manages, his voice thready and uncertain, as if Ukai is as likely to bite his head off as to produce the food in question.

Ukai drops three into the bag, reaches out to select another without turning around. “Take the fourth one for yourself,” he says as he turns back around to offer the paper bag to the boy in exchange for the handful of coins clutched in his fingers. “You could do with some extra to catch up to your friend.”

“Kageyama?” the boy asks, but he’s looking into the bag, reaching for the extra bun without waiting for a response. “I’ll definitely keep up with him!” He retrieves the bun in question, eats half of it in one bite; by the time he’s out the door it’s entirely gone, leaving Ukai to slump back to his slouch behind the counter and rifle idly through the pages of his manga.

He ducks into the back that night before closing up, pushing past the curtain marking off the barrier between the shop and the house where his mother is humming over her cooking.

“Hey ma,” he says from the doorway, leaning against the support of the frame as she looks up at him. “Were there any phone calls to the store this evening?”

“I don’t think so,” she says. “You were working all evening and I didn’t take any for you. Were you expecting someone?”

Ukai shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Just checking.”

“Stay for dinner,” his mother suggests. “It’ll be ready in just a few minutes.”

“No,” Ukai says again, turning to head back to the front of the store. “I gotta get back home tonight.”

He spends the walk back deliberately thinking about anything at all except for volleyball and Takeda Ittetsu.


	9. Certain

Takeda can’t make it to the gym fast enough.

He’s all but running as it is, his feet nearly catching on themselves with every step he takes and his movement so precipitous as to utterly strip him of the dignity and calm he should be exuding in his role as a faculty member. But his heart is soaring, and his lips won’t let go of the smile clinging to them, and the only way to relieve his excitement is through physical expression of some sort. Between the options of running himself to the gym or shouting delight in the faculty room, Takeda deems the movement the more restrained.

The team is practicing as usual; Takeda has a moment of hesitation for interrupting them, wonders if his action isn’t motivated too much by selfish reasons to give him the excuse to cut in. But his news is important to the team as much as for himself, even if their interest is of a more general nature than his own, and in the end he does interrupt with a “Good job, everyone,” loud enough to carry over the sound of shoes skidding on the gym floor and the _smack_ of volleyballs hitting open palms. Takeda lifts his arm as the team pauses what they’re doing, drawing the attention of the disparate members to him by the motion; his heart is pounding from excitement as much as from his brief sprint to the gym, his smile still insistent at his lips. “I want you all to listen up.”

The team collects around him, dropping their various pursuits in favor of hearing whatever Takeda has to say. The first years look curious or bored, for Hinata and Tsukishima respectively, but the third years look expectant, Sawamura and Sugawara both eyeing Takeda as if they are anticipating what he’s going to say before he puts words to it. Takeda waits until he has everyone’s attention, until the excitement in his chest has eased a little to allow him space to speak; then, loud so it will carry to everyone: “We’re doing it again this year, aren’t we? Golden Week training camp!”

“Yes,” Sawamura agrees, sounding as certain and steady as he always does. “We still need a lot of practice.”

“One more thing,” Takeda says, feeling his chest swell on anticipation, tasting the flutter of delight on the back of his tongue. “For the last day of Golden Week…” He reaches for his glasses, pushes them farther up his nose, and then enthusiasm sweeps through him, draws his arm up into the air as his voice catches loud into a shout. “I’ve arranged a practice match!”

There’s a chorus of ‘ooh’s as the team’s expressions dissolve into wide-eyed delight and spreading smiles, a louder burst of “Awesome! Very impressive, Take-chan” from Tanaka. Takeda’s chest swells tight on pleasure, the satisfaction of offering good news enough to override even his personal delight at his success for a moment. Everyone is smiling, the entire team brought into happiness by his news, and for the first time Takeda feels like he’s being the advisor he should have been all along, like his attempts have finally turned the corner from effort into results.

“Who’s our opponent?” Sugawara asks, eyes bright and curious.

Takeda lets his arm fall, takes a breath to steady the excited thrum of his voice. When he speaks his tone has dropped into seriousness, hitting the same range he uses when he’s lecturing to a class about the biography of an author or the historical setting for a novel, the words gaining weight and relevance in the back of his throat to come out rich with meaning. “A venerated school in Tokyo, Nekoma High School.” He pauses for a moment to let the name settle. “They call themselves…” Another pause, longer this time, just enough to build suspense. “‘Neko.’”

Hinata blinks. “Neko?”

“We’ve heard a lot about them,” Tanaka offers. “Our former coach and theirs were rivals. We played each other a lot.”

“Woah.”

“That’s right.” It’s Sugawara this time, dropping into the tone of nostalgia as his eyes go dreamy with recollection. “Those famous matches were called ‘Cat vs. Crow: Battle at the Garbage Dump.’”

“You sure those matches were famous?” Tsukishima asks in a tone precisely calculated to carry while being low enough that everyone can pretend not to hear.

“They’ve refused us for a while,” Sawamura says, sounding thoughtful. When he looks at Takeda his gaze is sharp, his eyes dark with something that looks like the beginnings of respect. “Why now?”

“Yeah,” Takeda demurs. “I’ll tell you the details later.” He won’t; the _how_ is uninteresting, he knows, no one ever wants to hear about nightly phone calls and oft-repeated pleas for consideration. Persistence might pay off in results, but it rarely makes for a good story. That’s okay. As long as he has the conclusion he wants, the process of getting there is more than worth it. “But after I heard about that rival school, I had to arrange for a rematch of destiny.” Sawamura blinks, looking surprised, but Takeda barely sees him; his attention is elsewhere, caught in the memory of a growling voice and eyes even darker and steadier than Sawamura’s. He can feel the thought settle into his chest, swell and press hard against the inside of his ribcage with something that is a little bit desperation and a lot hope, anticipation too strong to allow space for even the possibility of failure. He has traction, now, he has what he needs, he can feel it; everything is coming together as neatly as a story, and Takeda is sure this will be the last piece he needs. When he speaks again it’s more to himself than to Sawamura, the words turning on a reference that is utterly lost on his audience. “I think when he hears who our opponent is...he’ll want to take action.”

Takeda knows the team doesn’t have the least idea who he’s talking about. That’s okay. It’s only a matter of time before they’ll have the chance to meet Ukai Keishin for themselves, Takeda is sure of it.


	10. Seduction

Ukai likes to sing when he works.

It’s not something anyone outside his family knows. Generally he spends his shifts at the store lounging behind the counter, serving more as a babysitter for the register than doing anything more deliberately active. But when he’s doing chores at home he’ll hum to himself, or sometimes turn music on and sing along to the lyrics, and he likes the rhythm of it, likes the distraction of sound vibrating in his chest as he goes through the simple motions of cleaning. Dusting at the store is a much less frequent occurrence, and not always one of the responsibilities that falls during his shift, but today the shelves could do with some going-over, and with the sun streaming bright through the windows and the store absent any customers, Ukai takes the time to find the duster and wander down the aisles to sweep aside the dust that’s collected in front of the less popular boxes or at the corners of the back shelves. His mind is wandering, his thoughts easy instead of stressed, and when he finds a tune running through his head he’s humming along before he thinks about it, forming out the shape of the words in the back of his throat as backdrop to the easy motion of his wrist.

It’s pleasant, actually, the rhythm of the movement and the satisfaction of the song unwinding contentment through his veins, and Ukai picks up his volume without thinking, letting his voice growl over the words without much care for how tuneless they must sound to a outside listener. He makes it down an entire aisle that way, working his way around boxes and cans in order, taking more care with the process than he normally would just for the comfortable certainty of a job well done. Ukai’s well into both his song and his cigarette when he turns to consider the next aisle and sees the dark shape of someone peering in through the shop window.

His singing dies into a shout, the immediate panic of being seen when he thought he was alone seizing his lungs into a yell he can’t restrain even when his cigarette drops to the floor. His mother calls “Keishin?” from the other room, startled by his exclamation, but Ukai has blinked now, and Ukai knows the shape of those glasses and the fit of that suit, and he doesn’t even consider hesitating.

“I’m fine!” he shouts, stepping hard against his dropped cigarette to crush it out, and he’ll have to come back to clean it up later but there’s no time right now, he has to get outside as fast as possible. Already Takeda is flinching back from the window, retreating as if he’s thinking about leaving again, and without thinking about it at all Ukai knows that option is unacceptable, knows he has to stop him before Takeda has the chance to get too far away. He bolts for the door, skids out of the entrance almost before it’s open, and Takeda is turning to face him but Ukai’s shouting at him before he has a chance to speak, his words tripping over themselves as much from haste as from embarrassed self-consciousness. “Wh-what are you doing?”

Takeda’s eyes are wide, startled as if he’s surprised by Ukai’s appearance, as if this isn’t the shop where Ukai works, where Takeda has come before for the sole purpose of seeing him. His hands come up in a gesture of innocence but he doesn’t move away down the sidewalk even as Ukai stomps forward, and he might look surprised but there’s no give at all to the set of his mouth. “I’m sorry.” He sounds calm too, far calmer than Ukai feels, and how long has it been since he came by last time, how long has it been since his last phone call? It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t make a difference, but Ukai’s memory is backtracking the dates as if the number will fundamentally change his approach to this, as if that piece of information will ease the pattern of his racing heartbeat. “I was checking to see if you had any customers.”

Ukai can feel some of the irrational tension sag out of his shoulders, can feel resignation settle heavy in his blood. “You’re here about the coaching thing again, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” and Takeda sounds relieved but Ukai feels the confirmation like a weight on his chest, a reminder of his own foolishness in thinking the other man could possibly be present for anything other than his stated purpose. Ukai knows what it is Takeda wants, after all, and it’s good to know he still wants it, good to know he hasn’t found another coach yet; the fact that his interest is limited to the scope of Ukai-as-coach and not Ukai-as-person is irrelevant, shouldn’t carry anything like the crushing weight it does. But it does, though there’s something of relief there too; at least the disappointment is enough to still the frantic pounding of Ukai’s heart and to smooth his breathing into the steady rush of a sigh instead of the high catch of excitement it was.

“I thought you had given up,” Ukai says, turning away from the bright focus of Takeda’s eyes and leaning against the shop window instead. “Or found someone else.”

“No,” Takeda says, his voice deceptively sweet for how rock-solid certain his tone is. “I believe you are the right choice for the team, Ukai-kun. My feelings on that haven’t changed.”

“Huh.” Ukai doesn’t look up at Takeda; it’s safer to keep his focus on the fields in front of him, to gaze at the glistening bright of the greenhouse in the distance instead of meeting the gold in Takeda’s eyes. With the window of the shop at his shoulders he feels nearly steady, feels nearly himself, even with the weight of Takeda’s full attention turned on him. He can feel the heat of it under his skin like a sunburn, prompting him for an answer to the question Takeda hasn’t even bothered to state aloud, this time.

“I still like to play,” Ukai volunteers, and he hadn’t intended to offer that but he can’t go back into the shop, not after having stormed out like he did, and Takeda is watching him like he’s expecting something, and the prickle of self-consciousness along his spine won’t let him leave the moment to silence. “I even have a local team. But I don’t want to coach. It’s stuffy.” He sounds petulant, he can hear it in his voice, but there’s only so much control he has over his tone with Takeda’s stare focused on him as intently as if he can draw the words he wants to hear from Ukai by force. It’s making Ukai’s heart speed in his chest even though he knows it’s not for him, even as he tells himself Takeda must do this to everyone, that there’s nothing particularly special about his individual case. Takeda makes a faint noise, something a little bit understanding and a lot encouraging, and Ukai looks to him before he thinks, catches the radiant gold of Takeda’s gaze as his voice drops over an edge into growling sincerity. “And I don’t want to go to that gymnasium, either.”

Takeda’s expression collapses into apology, his eyes going impossibly wider and soft at the corners; it’s almost comedic, like a caricature of sympathy, except for how utterly sincere the tremble at his lips is and how unstudied the lift of his hand to his mouth appears. “D-do you have bad memories or something?”

“The very opposite,” Ukai growls, and he’s turning in without thinking, bracing his hands on his hips as he leans in to underscore his point to the unnecessary pity in Takeda’s gaze. “The place is filled with fond memories of my youth.”

It’s confusion that spreads across Takeda’s face, now, a crease in his forehead and softness at his mouth. Ukai really needs to stop looking at his lips. “Then...why?”

Ukai looks away, back out to the simple distraction of the fields for his unseeing gaze. He can feel the weight of memory heavy in his thoughts, can hear the echo of footsteps and the sound of shouts like birdsong imagined in the dead of winter. He can remember himself, the shape of a body a little too tall and a little too lanky, shoulders he wasn’t comfortable with and arms that didn’t work quite right. He can remember the warmth of easy camaraderie that came with games, win or lose, and the pleasure of collapsing into bed after practice without a thought in his head but the improvement he was making in his tosses. His chest aches, his heart swelling like it’s trying to make room for the memory in the confines of his current life, and Ukai has to push it back before it cracks him open, before the golden glow of the past turns the warmth of the sunlight on his present reality cold and dreary by comparison. He takes a breath, reaches for words. “The gym and club room may still be the same, but I can never go back. It was a limited time with its own distinctive feel. The atmosphere belongs to that place and time alone.”

“So it’s nostalgia,” Takeda says, his voice dipping low and drawling faintly over the word as if to grant it extra weight. “How nice.”

Ukai can feel his whole face go hot with self-consciousness, the warm glaze of memories evaporating at the sudden recollection that he has an audience, of _who_ his audience is, of how utterly pretentious his words must sound coming from a man not yet in his thirties. “Shut up!” He turns back to Takeda, shuts his eyes to center his attention, and takes a breath before he says in a more ordinary tone: “That’s why I don’t want to go back.”

“Even if Nekoma High School were coming?”

Ukai can feel the whole of his world jolt sideways. His eyes come open, his mouth drops; he’s staring, he knows he is, giveaway shock must be painted all over his face, but he can’t even attempt to hide it, not with the name so loaded with past-tense emotion coming from Takeda’s lips. Takeda’s staring at him, his eyes dark, his mouth set, and he’s still talking, pushing the topic further as if Ukai ran the risk of not hearing him the first time. “We’re having a practice match at the end of Golden Week. The first match in five years.”

“B-but.” Ukai’s voice is shaking and he can’t steady it, his breathing is catching and he can’t find the air. His thoughts are blank, whited-out with surprise until he can’t even think to wonder how Takeda knows this historical detail. “Wh-why now?”

“Their director, Nekomata, who was close friends with Director Ukai, just came out of retirement. When I heard that, I requested a practice match.”

Ukai flinches. He can’t help it, the shock of hearing that name again is too much, and Takeda is still watching him, still absorbing all his reactions as if he’s collecting ammunition to use in some battle. “When you were there, Ukai-kun, wasn’t that when the Nekoma rivalry was at its peak?”

 _How does he know?_ Ukai’s skin is prickling as if with cold he doesn’t feel, like he’s shivering without feeling the motion. How can Takeda know, how did he find out, how much research has he done to make every word out of his mouth cut precisely into Ukai’s history? “Yeah.”

Takeda’s chin comes down, his eyes go even darker. Even the cover of his glasses isn’t enough to hide the intention in his eyes or to soften the absolute focus that he is turning on Ukai. Ukai would worry about that, if he had the attention left to do anything at all except gape at the other. “And I hear their coach now was Nekoma’s setter seven or eight years ago.”

Ukai can’t breathe. Memory is cutting through his attention, calling up the burn of competition in his veins, pressing the ghostly memory of a handshake on a promise that was never fulfilled. And over it all, lacing across his recollection and gaining force with every heartbeat: _he_ cares _, he researched_ you _, he’s been trying to get_ you _to join the team_. Ukai’s collected insecurities are collapsing under their own weight, falling to dust at the proof of Takeda’s focus, at the proof of Takeda’s _interest_ , and all the thoughts in his head are fading out, are giving way to stunned, echoing silence as Takeda keeps talking. “That was when you were playing, too. Maybe you know him?”

Ukai ducks his chin, stares fixedly at the ground as he takes a breath. “Hey.”

“Mm?”

Ukai moves all at once. He doesn’t think about what he’s about to do; he’s just still one moment and moving the next, reaching out to close his fingers into fists on the front of Takeda’s suit jacket as he drags him in closer. “You trying to seduce me?” and he’s _shouting_ , he’s all but screaming the words right into Takeda’s face, and Takeda is _so_ close, the startled panic in his eyes is so near Ukai can see his pupils blow wide on sudden adrenaline.

“I’m sorry!” Takeda yells, cringing back from Ukai’s sudden aggression, but Ukai still has a grip on his jacket and can’t stop shaking him, as if having once started moving he can’t stop the relief of action for the stress coiled too-tight all through his body. “I’m sorry!”

“Are you kidding?” Ukai shouts. Takeda’s warm under his hands, capitulating to the drag of Ukai’s hold without trying to resist at all; he feels like he weighs nothing at all, like Ukai could shove him backwards against the glass of the window without even trying, could pull him in closer over the few inches left between them without a thought.”You think I’ll fall for such an obvious ploy?” Another shake, and Takeda’s cringing now, his whole face screwed up into the apologies he’s stopped voicing. “What time does practice start?”

“I’m sor--” Takeda starts, and then pauses, opens his eyes like he’s just heard what Ukai’s said. He blinks up at the other, the momentary panic in his face collapsing into blank incomprehension instead. His glasses are off-center on his nose. “Huh?”

Takeda is very close. There’s barely a handful of inches between his wide gold eyes and Ukai’s, hardly any distance between Ukai’s lips and his. Ukai’s heart is pounding in his chest, adrenaline from too many causes burning under his skin and shaking in his hands. He lets his hold on Takeda’s jacket go and turns away towards the shop before he can do anything more stupid than what he’s already done, what he’s already decided to do.

“Um…” Ukai can hear Takeda’s footsteps behind him as he heads for the counter, as he reaches for the knot at the back of his apron to untie it. He doesn’t turn around.

“So Nekoma is coming.” The apron gives way to Ukai’s tug, the fastening coming undone as his heart pounds hard in his chest. “I can’t let them see my successors in a pitiful state.” Ukai pulls the apron off over his head; he can hear the rhythm of Takeda’s breathing from the doorway but he doesn’t look back, doesn’t want to see the shocked-soft glow on Takeda’s face when he can’t control the smile threatening at his own mouth. He aims for a growl instead, adopts a gruff edge to his voice to cover the tremor of happiness running all through his veins and bright in his eyes. “I’m gearing up. Go there and wait.”

“Y-yes!” Takeda sounds breathless, his voice skidding high on shocked delight, and Ukai is _really_ glad, now, that he’s not looking at the other man, because he’s not sure he could even pretend to still have any control over himself if he saw the expression that goes with that tone.

“Mom!” he shouts towards the back room. “Mind the store for me.”

This isn’t what he expected to be doing today, Ukai thinks as he fishes his phone out of his pocket and begins dialing a number. But with his heart racing in his chest and Takeda still waiting for him in the doorway of the shop, he can’t find a trace of regret in him.


	11. Reiterate

Ukai doesn’t look back to the door until he’s hung up from his phone call. Takeda’s been doing his best to straighten his suit jacket while the other’s back is turned -- it’s rumpled up over his shoulders, the lapels showing the marks of Ukai’s grip on the fabric so clearly Takeda’s best efforts can’t completely smooth them -- but Ukai doesn’t comment on it when he looks over, barely sparing a glance for Takeda at all.

“I told you to go and wait at the gym,” he says as he turns his back on Takeda and reaches for the hem of his orange sweater. “You know so much about me, don’t you, you should know I can find my way to the volleyball court on my own.”

“Oh,” Takeda says. “Yes.” In truth he can barely remember what Ukai told him to do; there was just the movement, the hands dragging hard at his jacket and Ukai suddenly, breathlessly near, and then the capitulation so utterly unexpected it took Takeda several seconds to be sure he heard correctly. Anything else was lost to the rush of victory in his veins and the thud of adrenaline under his skin, the warmth of happiness so strong he can still feel it flushing his cheeks to pink. “Sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ukai tells him. He drags at the edge of the sweater to pull it up over his head; he’s wearing a t-shirt under it, but the fabric is thin enough that it catches at the elastic hem of the sweater as Ukai tugs and rides up to his shoulders along with the rest of the cloth. Takeda is left staring at the long line of Ukai’s back, at the curve of his spine just above the top edge of his pants and the ripple of muscle across his shoulders as he struggles free of his sweater, and he can feel heat rush into color across his cheeks, can feel self-consciousness burning in his thoughts and completely insufficient persuasion for him to look away. Ukai drags the sweater free and tosses it over the back of the chair by the cash register; it’s not until he’s grabbing the hem of his shirt to tug it back down that Takeda blinks and realizes Ukai is looking back at him, that Ukai is seeing him staring at his bare skin.

“Sorry,” Ukai mumbles, color showing dark across his cheekbones, but he turns away before Takeda can offer anything similar, before Takeda can find anything but breathless appreciation at the back of his tongue. Ukai ducks past the curtain into the back of the shop, fumbles with something unseen for a moment, and when he returns it’s with a jacket in his hands that he drags on over his t-shirt with his chin ducked down as if to hide the crimson self-consciousness clear over his face. “Let’s go.”

“Right,” Takeda says, and Ukai steps past him and onto the sunlight-bright of the sidewalk. For a moment he’s close enough to touch; Takeda stays still, lets Ukai move past him, and it’s not until the other pauses and looks back that he thinks to stumble forward and fall into step alongside him.

There’s silence for a moment, quiet between them except for the rhythm of their shoes hitting the sidewalk; then Ukai clears his throat and says, “Do you need to change?” with a sideways glance at the other.

“What?” Takeda asks, still too distracted on the fizzing joy of impossible success to parse language rapidly. He has to look down at what he’s wearing before he can remember what he has on, and even then it takes a moment to realize why Ukai is asking. “Oh. Oh, no, it’s fine, I really don’t do much at practice right now anyway, other than watch the team.”

Ukai looks away again. He’s going pink again, as if the heat from the sun is rising a burn under the tan of his skin; when he clears his throat it turns into a cough. “Sorry about your suit.”

For a moment Takeda can feel it again in memory: the weight of Ukai’s hands against his clothes, the overwhelming sensation of being dragged forward as though he weighed nothing at all. Ukai had been so close, flushed with emotion and shouting with such volume that Takeda had felt nothing but panic at the time, but in retrospect all his skin goes hot with the consideration of how close they were, with the uncannily astute question Ukai had begun with.

“Oh no,” he says, and he sounds a little bit breathless and he’s a little bit pink but he doesn’t want to look away from the way Ukai is blushing next to him, doesn’t want to give up the shadows in those dark eyes. He lifts a hand, waves away the other’s apology as unnecessary. “I’m honestly not that comfortable in it in the first place, usually I’m less formal even when I’m teaching.”

Ukai looks at him again without turning his head, his gaze dragging over the whole of Takeda’s outfit. “Did you think dressing up would make you more persuasive?”

“Ah,” Takeda says. “I _am_ sorry for making such a nuisance of myself.” He ducks his head in apology. “I really do believe this team has something special to offer. You’ll agree with me, I think, once you see them play.”

“I’m going to see them right now.” Ukai pauses, turns to frown at Takeda. “Don’t get the wrong idea, sensei.” His voice is low, rumbling over the sound in the back of his throat like he’s letting the words rattle against each other in his chest, and Takeda can feel his skin prickle electric under the weight of the suit over his shoulders as if he’s coming alive to the sound of Ukai’s voice. “I’m not agreeing to coach them long-term. This is only until the practice match with Nekoma.”

“Right,” Takeda says, because Ukai is frowning at him like he’s expecting verification, and because he knows what Ukai said, knows precisely what the other agreed to in front of the store. “But you’ll be coming to the practices we hold before the match, right?”

“Of course,” Ukai growls, and turns away to continue down the sidewalk, leaving Takeda to jog to catch up with the length of the other’s stride. “I’ll do my part as the team’s coach until then. I can’t let these kids disgrace the name of Karasuno, not if they’re going to be facing Nekoma.” His voice has gone even lower than it was, dipping itself into intensity as he goes; he’s walking faster, too, taking such long strides Takeda is struggling to keep up. For a moment they’re silent, Ukai glaring at the sidewalk in front of them and Takeda panting alongside him; then Ukai looks at Takeda again and some of the intensity in his expression eases, the rush of his footsteps slows to a more reasonable pace.

“Just until the match,” he says again, repeating himself like he doesn’t think Takeda heard him the first time. He sounds almost defensive, like he’s trying to push a point shaky even in his own head. “You should find another coach for the team in the meantime.”

“Ah,” Takeda says. “Of course.”

He won’t. From the sharp look Ukai gives him the lie was as obvious on his tongue as it is in his thoughts. That’s okay. Ukai is going to see the team play, and he’s going to coach them for the match against Nekoma, and if Takeda hasn’t convinced him to stay after that, he’s not half as persuasive as he believes himself to be.


	12. Impression

The gym is different than Ukai remembers.

He was braced for his return to be bittersweet, to ache in that sore spot just against his ribcage like a burden against his heart, like a healed-over loss remembering its old pain the way broken bones sometimes ache with an oncoming storm. By the time Takeda led the way into the gym to offer a dramatic introduction of Ukai to a team composed almost entirely of boys Ukai has met and spoken to on multiple occasions, Ukai is hunched in over himself like he’s bracing for a storm, ready to bear the wall of emotion he is expecting to hit him with stoic resolve. But the gym isn’t empty as it always is in his imagination, isn’t silent with the absence of his own movements; it’s full of action, brightly lit and complete with the rhythm of shoes and the smack of volleyballs hitting the floor just the same as it was when Ukai was younger. Ukai is left braced for a shock that never comes, for a pain that fails to materialize; it’s as if he was expecting to meet an old lover only to find them married and settled with children of their own instead of pining after him as he had been expecting.

It could be painful. It’s not. There’s a comfort there instead, a reassurance to be gained from the knowledge that life goes on for everyone, for the volleyball team and for the gym as much as for Ukai, that just because the team may not be well-known anymore it’s nothing like dead.

Takeda excuses himself after introducing Ukai, touches the other’s arm and says “I’ll be right back” before disappearing out the gym door while Ukai is still tense from the casual contact against his sleeve. It’s enough distraction that he forgets to worry about not knowing what he’s doing, and then the first members of the neighborhood association arrive, and Ukai is so busy collecting enough players to fill out both teams that he doesn’t realize how easily he took charge until Karasuno has started warming up for the impromptu practice match. It’s a strange feeling, to realize he has his grandfather’s tone echoing in his throat instead of his own, but there’s something reassuring about it, too, a comfort in the thought that however hard he had to work at _playing_ volleyball, coaching is something that appears to come far more naturally.

Except he’s not coaching long-term, he tells himself sternly, while the respective teams fall into position to offer the first serve of the match. It’s only until the match against Nekoma. Then he’s back to his peaceful life, and his casual volleyball matches, and he’ll leave this behind him, leave Takeda to find another coach and--

“Sorry,” Takeda says from his elbow, breathless even on the one word. “I got caught in a discussion with Mizuki-sensei. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Ukai replies, turning to look at Takeda next to him. “I got some players from the…” And then he sees what Takeda is wearing, and “...neighborhood association” falls off so abruptly Ukai can barely hear the words over the sound of the players’ shoes on the floor.

Takeda’s changed his jacket. It’s a minor change, or it should be; he still has his tie on, is still wearing the formal slacks that go with the suit that is all Ukai has ever seen him in before. But the soft green of the track jacket makes him look even younger than he did before, makes him look bright and warm and hardly old enough to be out of high school himself, and he’s standing far closer than Ukai expected, close enough that his sleeve is nearly brushing the other’s elbow. Ukai can’t look away from the dark of Takeda’s hair curling against the collar of his jacket and over the tops of his ears; it looks impossibly soft from this close-up, drawing Ukai’s stare in place of the touch he’d like to offer.

“This is amazing,” Takeda says without looking away from the movement on the court in front of them. “This is the first real practice match I’ve seen them have.”

“Ah,” Ukai manages. “It’s better to see them play in an actual game rather than running through drills.”

“It’s such a help to have a coach,” Takeda says, and then he looks up, his smile spreading all across his face and sparkling sunlight into his eyes. His tie is looser than it was, the top button of his shirt is undone; Ukai can see an extra inch of pale skin in the shadowed triangle made by the open edges of the collar. “Thank you so much for agreeing to help, Ukai-kun.”

Ukai can feel himself going hot, can feel his cheeks burning embarrassment as the rest of him goes flushed and warm under the force of Takeda’s attention. “Yeah, well.” He looks back at the game, clears his throat somewhat more roughly than he needs to. “It’s just until Nekoma.”

“Mm.” Takeda doesn’t sound convinced but he doesn’t push the question either, for which Ukai is more grateful than he should be. He’s not certain enough in himself to trust that he would refuse, if Takeda looked at him like that and framed the words in that pleading voice again. “They’re good, aren’t they?”

“They’re not bad,” Ukai allows as Sugawara sets the ball for Uchizawa to spike. “They could do with some practice, but they’re better than I expected.” Sawamura makes the receive and sends the ball flying towards Kageyama, who catches it cleanly against his fingertips to set for Hinata. “With some work they--”

The ball slams against the far side of the court.

“What was that?” Takinoue blurts. From the other side of the court Kageyama is grinning victory, Hinata is leaping himself into excitement, but Ukai is barely paying attention; he’s still stuck seconds behind, knocked speechless by the unbelievable speed of the spike he just saw. Kageyama had barely touched the ball, there’s no possible way Hinata could have made it so high so fast; but he did, was just _there_ as soon as Ukai looked for him, and the ball was hitting itself into the weight of a scored point before Ukai could blink, much less before anyone on the other team could react. He’s aware, distantly, of Takeda grinning at him, all but bouncing on his toes as he watches Ukai’s reaction, but he can’t collect himself even to look and see the sparkle in the other’s eyes.

 _Sensei was right_ , Ukai thinks from amid the haze of shock still knocking his thoughts all but incoherent. He _did_ need to see them play.


	13. Attention

It’s gratifying to see the way Ukai watches the game.

Takeda knew it would be like this. He’s known for days, for weeks, has known since he first asked that all he needed to do was get Ukai in this gym, watching this team, and he would be hooked, would be drawn in by the potential so obvious even Takeda’s inexperienced eyes can pick it out. It’s still deeply satisfying to see him here now, staring at the team like he’s never seen a volleyball game before, like he can’t look away for how intently he’s considering the players. And it’s a pleasure just to have him here in the first place, with the bright of his hair and the dark of his jacket fitting into the surroundings like they were meant to be here, slotting into place with the rest of the team as seamlessly as Takeda knew he would. It’s easier to breathe with him here, easy to let the strain of panic go with this last gap in the team filled, and filled perfectly, as Takeda knew only Ukai would be able to.

He’s looking at Ukai too much. The game is happening right in front of him, there’s plenty to look at other than the man just alongside his shoulder, but it’s hard for Takeda to keep his eyes on the match when there’s so much enjoyment to be gained from watching the concentrated focus in Ukai’s eyes. He looks like he does in the old yearbook photographs, his entire expression drawn into intent focus as Takeda rarely saw it at the convenience store; it’s as if the rhythm of the match and the change of his clothes has made him into someone completely different, someone bright and present and so real everything around him is becoming clearer by proximity, like he’s pulling the world into focus just by being here. Or maybe it’s not that he’s different; it’s that he’s _himself_ , for the first time that Takeda has ever seen him, that he looks like the kind of person, now, that could fit the intent focus of the high schooler he was and the lazy drawl of the voice he’s grown into into a single existence and make them fall together as seamlessly as if one is a natural consequence of the other. So Takeda keeps staring, keeps glancing sideways like he’s taking sips of clear water with every glimpse of Ukai’s face, and Ukai doesn’t look to catch him, just keeps watching the game with so much focus it’s drawing a crease into the smooth of his forehead and tightening his mouth into a frown.

“What’s the matter with you guys?” he finally growls, shouting it across the court at the first-years on the Karasuno side of the net. “Are you freaks?”

“What?” Hinata asks. There’s a mumble of sound from Kageyama, a snicker from Tsukishima, but Takeda doesn’t listen to what they’re saying; he’s watching Ukai instead, trying to pick meaning out of the fixed frown settling itself onto his features.

“I was preoccupied arranging the match, so I didn’t understand what he meant,” Ukai says, low enough that Takeda isn’t sure it’s meant for him at all. He looks abstracted, lost in his own thoughts like he’s recalling something, but Takeda can’t make sense of the words and isn’t sure he should interrupt. He contents himself with a faint note of curiosity, enough to prompt Ukai to continue if he wants but not enough to distract him if he’s talking to himself.

Ukai folds his arms across his chest without meeting Takeda’s gaze. “I guess that first-year setter is what you’d call a genius. He can’t be compared to a normal person.” Takeda’s breath catches, his imagination catching alight: what can they do with a genius, how good can they become? If it’s a matter of natural talent and not just remarkable skill, the team may be able to do even better than he had originally dared to hope. But Ukai’s still not looking at him, and the focus in his eyes hasn’t eased yet. Takeda looks back out to the game, trailing the other’s attention, not on the Karasuno side of the net, but on the side with the visiting players, on the team filled out with Sugawara and Asahi. “But...”

Sugawara’s fingertips catch the ball and send it curving through the air in a clean line. There’s an elegance to the motion, a grace to it that holds Takeda’s attention; it might not be as breathtakingly impressive as Kageyama and Hinata’s speed, but it looks certain, it carries a weight of deliberate confidence that brings reassurance with it, that leaves Takeda certain of the toss’s success even before the spiker has hit the volleyball smoothly over the net. There’s a burst of sound from the players, a compliment from one of the neighborhood association and a surprisingly enthusiastic wail from Tanaka on the opposing side, but Takeda is looking back to Ukai, back at the fixed attention of his gaze unruffled by the reactions from the court.

“The timing of that toss and spike...that’s only possible after lots of training and time.” He’s still not looking at Takeda but he’s speaking too low for the players on the court to hear, his words falling into a rhythm that Takeda recognizes as that of a teacher explaining to a student, even if the low rumble of Ukai’s voice is far removed from the deliberately formal tone the school faculty take during classes. “But you can’t build up the trust it takes overnight. That first-year setter has amazing talent, and the other guy is both trustworthy and dependable.”

Ukai smiles suddenly, his frown breaking into a grin so vicious Takeda flinches back from it; for a moment that expression with Ukai’s blond hair makes him look like a delinquent in truth, like he’s anticipating the pleasure of victories to come. Ukai glances at him then, sees the wide-eyed shock on Takeda’s face, and for a moment his grin eases into the comfort of a laugh, the weight of his chuckle turning the dark focus in his eyes into something soft and warm and so appealing Takeda can feel his expression falling slack, can feel all his focus undoing itself into an answering smile that touches his blood to warmth in his veins. They smile at each other for a breath, Ukai meeting and holding Takeda’s fixed gaze; then Ukai looks away and back to the game, and Takeda turns his head too, pulling his gaze away from Ukai’s expression even as his heart pounds adrenaline out into all his body.

It’s hard to pay attention to the match. There’s too much happening for Takeda to follow, even if his focus didn’t keep sliding sideways every time Ukai moves his arms or shifts his feet. But he tries all the same, keeps his eyes on the movement of the volleyball instead of trying to track the separate actions of each of the players, and he’s just starting to relax into the rhythm of the rallies, starting to imagine he can see the structure of the game if not the underlying logic, when Ukai takes a breath like he’s come to some conclusion.

“Karasuno is pretty good right now,” he declares, and then he swings an arm out to smack weight between Takeda’s shoulderblades before the other has a chance to react. All the air rushes out of Takeda’s lungs in a startled burst of noise, his balance teetering and nearly giving way to the sudden force, but Ukai’s still talking, purring over the words like they’re made of honey against his tongue. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, sensei?”

Takeda regains his balance with an effort and reaches up to adjusts his glasses. “I did tell you,” he sighs, even attaining a suggestion of resignation in his tone with the recollection of uncounted phone calls, with the echo of pleading still on his tongue from his first visit to the convenience store. “Repeatedly.” But then he looks sideways, and Ukai is grinning out at the team, glowing with all the focused attention he is bringing to bear on the match, and all Takeda’s irritation evaporates like it was never there at all. It’s hard to be frustrated when Ukai is smiling like that.


	14. Consideration

Karasuno is _good_.

Ukai arrived expecting a mediocre to decent performance from the team. Even with Takeda’s insistence regarding the players’ abilities, it was impossible to do away with years of hearing laughter about ‘flightless crows’ in the aisles of the convenience store. But they’re stronger than he anticipated, with the third years offering the sense of a strong, well-built wall of teamwork and the new first years so vibrant with potential that they all but glow on the court. Ukai is so absorbed in the match that he almost doesn’t think about Takeda at all, even when the other takes a sudden startled inhale to punctuate a particularly remarkable spike or an impressive receive. It’s better for Ukai to keep his attention on the game in any case; it’s just an added advantage that there’s so much to consider, so many dynamics to appreciate in the players before him.

The third years have the most experience. It’s clear in every move they take, in the certainty of Sawamura’s footfalls when he moves in for a receive and in the strength of Azumane’s swing when he hits a toss from Sugawara. Whatever personal drama they’ve been dealing with amongst themselves, the traces of it are gone now as if they were never there, as if they’ve been playing volleyball together for an unbroken span of years. Tanaka and Nishinoya are strong, too; they have the same sense of cultivated skill the third-years give off, even if they’re both overflowing with more unrestrained energy than any of the three older boys. Even the quietest of the second-years playing, Ennoshita, shows the same kind of focused attention Sawamura demonstrates, like a pillar of support still steadying itself against its foundations. Ukai can see the balance of the team just from those six, a solid enough base to work from in any kind of tournament. It’s easy to get a read on them, as easy to see the hours of practice they’ve gone through as it is to see the dark pattern of bruises mottling Nishinoya’s elbows and knees; there’s experience there, and dedication, and Ukai is as grateful to that as to anything else. Without a strong core, he doubts even his grandfather could achieve much by way of a strong team.

And then there’s the first years, the new batch of recruits still looking to find a way to fit into the team. The three that are playing now make for a strange lesson in contradictions; there’s Tsukishima, with all the height to be an excellent player regardless of any additional skills, but who moves with something like a delay to his actions, like he’s calculating the relative value of effort before moving to hit the ball when it comes to him. He has the makings of a fantastic blocker in him, if he can be persuaded to care about the game; it’s hard for Ukai to tell if he even wants to be playing at all, although his presence on the court is a good argument in favor of the interest that appears nowhere on his face. He’s all potential and no enthusiasm; very nearly the opposite of Hinata, the redhead so short by all logic he should be wearing an L-marked jersey to match Nishinoya’s on the other side of the net. But he jumps like he has wings on his heels, with an energy that seems to gain intensity as the match continues instead of flagging, bringing so much enthusiasm to his actions it’s hard at first to even notice how unpolished his movements are. The polish, of course, comes from the setter, Kageyama, the dark-haired shadow to Hinata’s sunshine that Ukai has seen silently trailing in the other’s wake on multiple visits to the convenience store. His skill is real, and honed, and so remarkable every toss he makes twists something in Ukai’s chest that is almost painful, like seeing some beautiful work of art happening for a moment right in front of him. He remembers that motion, remembers the weight of the ball bouncing off his fingertips as it does off Kageyama’s, but Kageyama’s tosses are what Ukai was never able to make his, demonstrate the precision and skill that Ukai never saw in any but the highest tier of professional games. To be playing like that now, at this level, indicates not just years of dedicated practice but the talent of a true genius, the reality of skill that can’t be learned by solely effort or desire.

Kageyama and Hinata make a good duo. Ukai can see the fluidity of their movement together, can see the trust clear in Hinata’s jumps that kick him off the ground before Kageyama’s fingers have even touched the ball. Kageyama could be even better, and Hinata needs hours of practice to smooth out the rough edges of his movements, but the team’s lucky to have a pair that work so well together. They orient to each other with the ease of childhood friends, with the unconscious awareness of the other Ukai has only ever seen in pairs so long together matching to the other has become second-nature. Even when Kageyama shouts at Hinata for his obvious distraction, it demonstrates an attention to the other boy and an awareness of his mood that says more about Kageyama’s focus on what must be his best friend than it does about Hinata’s own insecurities. Ukai’s watching them, his attention caught by the tension of almost-an-argument forming between the pair, when there’s the rattle of metal-on-metal as the gym doors come open.

“Hey, volleyball club.” Everyone in the space turns to look to the door, where a thin, pale man is blinking bemused attention at the whole of them. His eyes skim across the team, land briefly on the neighborhood association players before dismissing them as an unimportant oddity. “It’s closing time. Put everything away.”

Ukai looks back at the scoreboard, feeling panic tighten suddenly in his chest. He’s had a chance to see the team play, certainly, but it’s only the second set of the match, and they’re still points away from any kind of a conclusion. Stopping here will interrupt the conversation Kageyama was having with Hinata, will prevent Ukai from completing his conclusions regarding the team’s play style, and worst of all will crush the excitement of playing still bright behind everyone’s eyes. But it’s late, later than Ukai had realized, and maybe he should have called the match after one set, maybe he should have--

“I’m sorry,” Takeda says, and Ukai’s attention skids away from his own inward panic to land on the shift of Takeda’s shoulders as he jogs up to the door. “But please wait until the match is finished.” He sounds polite, sounds even apologetic, but Ukai can hear the steel formed under the surface-level gentleness, can sense the wall of resistance he knows the other faculty member will encounter if he tries to push back.

He tries anyway. “But it’s late.”

“I’ll take responsibility for closing up.” Takeda’s voice is level, flat on certainty; Ukai knows how it feels to be on the other side of that conversation, with Takeda’s steady stare insisting on his own decision and his words deceptively sweet for how inescapable they are.

“All right then,” the other man says, capitulating far faster than Ukai expected him to. Perhaps he’s had experience with Takeda in other scenarios, perhaps in this same scenario with a late-running practice; maybe he knows how futile it is to try to resist that force. The idea makes Ukai smile as Takeda bows to the other man, tells him that he is “Sorry to have inconvenienced you” with so much politeness Ukai almost believes that he’s truly regretful. It’s Takeda who pushes the door of the gym shut again to hold back the weight of the night outside, and it’s while Ukai is still smiling at his back that Sawamura calls, “Sensei, I appreciate it. Thank you very much.” There’s another shout of approval, from Tanaka on the other side of the net: “Take-chan, you’re awesome!” as Takeda turns back from the door, giving a thumbs-up and a smile so flashingly bright it catches sudden tension into the back of Ukai’s throat and seizes his chest with a burst of appreciation so strong he can’t even form words of gratitude as Takeda comes jogging back to stand at his elbow again.

“I’ll help,” is what he says instead, suddenly and more roughly than he intends, with the words dragging over the tension in the back of his throat even though he’s looking out at the game again, even though he has his arms folded over his chest to hold himself still. “With closing up the gym, after the match is over.”

“Oh,” Takeda says, sounding warm and faintly apologetic. “You don’t need to do that, Ukai-kun. Just you taking the time to be here is more than enough.”

“It’s not a problem,” Ukai says, and clears his throat of the tension clinging to it, steadies his voice into certainty that feels like an echo of Takeda’s own. “I’d like to help.” He glances sideways. Takeda is watching his face, his whole body turned in to focus on what Ukai’s saying, his eyes wide and his mouth soft; he makes it look like Ukai’s the center of the whole world, like there’s nothing that could possibly be of more interest to him than what the other man is saying. Ukai can feel his face go hot under that consideration, can feel his cheeks flush to self-conscious color, but he holds the gold of Takeda’s gaze with his own. “Thanks for your hard work, sensei.”

Takeda’s smile lights up all his face. Ukai can see it fit into creases at the corners of the other’s eyes, can see the warm sincerity of it flush across Takeda’s cheekbones and curve soft at his lips, and then he has to look away, before his altruistic intentions of lending a helping hand in closing up turn into the purring shadows of far less innocent ideas for what he could do with Takeda in the darkened corners of the empty gym.

It takes a few minutes for him to return his attention to the match, after that.


	15. Gratitude

“Thank you again for the help,” Takeda offers as Ukai pushes the last of the metal storage baskets towards the back of the gym and the shadows of the half-enclosed space. “I really appreciate you staying late to help tidy up.”

“Sure,” Ukai says without turning around. His jacket is hanging over the edge of the basket he’s pushing, the extra warmth of it apparently unnecessary during the process of dismantling the net after the match and collecting the volleyballs that had escaped to the far corners of the gym. His white t-shirt is worn thin with comfort; Takeda can see the fabric go faintly translucent in the warm glow of the overhead lights, can see the suggestion of Ukai’s tan skin on the other side of the fabric as his shoulders shift with the effort of steering the cart. “You have work in the morning same as I do, it’ll get done faster if we work together.”

“Still,” Takeda insists, crossing the span of distance between them as Ukai pushes the basket into the closet and retrieves his jacket from the edge. “It’s more than you needed to do, I’m grateful.”

“You could have asked the team to do it,” Ukai points out. He’s not looking at Takeda; his attention is on the jacket in his hands as he frowns at the process of untangling the sleeves so he can shrug the weight of the clothing back over his shoulders. “It wouldn’t be unusual to expect them to tidy up the gym after the game.”

“Ah, well.” Takeda pauses some feet away from where Ukai is putting his jacket back on, leaving the bright of the gym floor between them rather than crossing over into the shadows of the storage room where Ukai is standing. His heart is fluttering a little too fast in his throat, his fingers are trembling very slightly with adrenaline; he crosses his arms behind himself, clasps his hands together at the small of his back to still their motion. “It’s later than they’re usually up. They need their rest after the game they had today.”

Ukai looks up at him. There’s a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth; in the shadows his eyes look very dark, like there’s endless depths behind his gaze. “You’re a good man, sensei.”

Takeda can feel his blush sweep up over his face like a wave, can feel the heat of it settle across his cheekbones and burn at the tips of his ears. “What? No, I’m just. I can’t do anything else for them, at least this is--”

“You do a lot,” Ukai says, his tone so certain there’s no space to fit self-conscious denial into the span of his words. “You take good care of them.” He steps forward into the light of the gym, reaching out as he approaches. When his hand lands heavy at Takeda’s shoulder Takeda can feel his face go even darker, has to duck his head in a futile attempt to hide his embarrassment as Ukai’s fingers tighten against his jacket to press a moment of heat against his skin. His heart is pounding in his chest, his blood rushing fever-hot in his veins; he can almost taste smoke on his tongue, can almost catch the bite of cigarettes clinging to Ukai’s jacket. Then the hand at his shoulder pulls away, and Takeda lifts his head to follow Ukai’s motion as he heads towards the door.

“You have a key for the gym, don’t you?” Ukai asks, pushing the weight of the door open and stepping out into the dark of the night. His hair looks darker out of the floodlights of the gym, the bleached-pale of the strands fading into burnished gold in the darkness outside, and for a moment Takeda is caught to stillness, his throat locked to silence by the line of Ukai’s jaw catching the moonlight as he looks up to the sky. It’s not until he looks back still holding the door open that Takeda processes the question, and the implied suggestion, and comes back into himself in a rush of self-consciousness.

“Ah,” he manages, and “yes,” and he’s stumbling forward over the width of the gym, fumbling in his pocket for the tangle of keys there rather than meeting Ukai’s patient stare. By the time he’s reached the door he has the keys in hand, is fitting them into the lock before he looks up to the spill of gold light from the windows and realizes he’s forgotten a step.

“The lights,” he says. “I need to turn them off.” He drops the door and moves to step back into the gym; it’s not until he’s three steps in that he thinks of the lock turned over by his key, of the latch swinging towards the door frame to settle into place. He pivots, reaching out to stop the motion well beyond his range, now, but Ukai’s still standing in the doorway, his fingers catching the swinging weight of the door as Takeda turns back to him.

“I got it,” he says, and he’s grinning, his smile gone sharp with the rumbling amusement Takeda can hear under his voice. “Turn the lights off, sensei.”

“Right,” Takeda says, and he’s smiling too, the adrenaline in his veins overriding even his flustered embarrassment to press delight against the inside of his chest. “I will.”

It only takes a minute. With the lights off the gym is darker even than outside, the faint glow of the moon and starlight not enough to illuminate much through the windows. Takeda moves carefully over the empty floor on his way back to the silhouette waiting by the door; Ukai’s features come into focus as he approaches until Takeda can see the lingering curve of his smile and the slouch of his shoulders as he leans against the doorframe to hold the weight open. He doesn’t straighten until Takeda is nearly to the entryway, and even then it’s only to take a step sideways and hold the door open so the other man can clear the frame before letting it fall shut.

“Have you locked yourself in before?” Ukai asks, laughter still clinging to the gaps between his words as Takeda turns the lock and frees his key.

“Ah,” Takeda says, flushing warm but smiling in spite of himself as he pockets the keys and looks back up to meet Ukai’s gaze. “Just once. Luckily there was another faculty member still closing up the main building and she heard me knocking against the door.”

Ukai laughs. In the quiet of the darkened school it’s very loud, and bright with amusement that tingles warmth through Takeda’s entire body. “Good thing you had company this time,” he says. “I can’t imagine staying in the gym overnight would be a very pleasant experience.”

“No,” Takeda admits. “Thank you, again.” Ukai looks at him sideways, his smile still clinging to his lips, but he doesn’t say anything further, and for a few minutes they walk in easy silence down the halls of the empty school. The moonlight gets brighter as Takeda’s eyes adjust; by the time they’re in the front courtyard it seems nearly as bright as daylight, his vision clear enough that he can see the catch of Ukai’s hair at the back collar of his jacket, can see the suggestion of late-night stubble shadowing the edge of his jaw. Takeda’s spine prickles with electricity, his breathing catches in his chest, and when he opens his mouth to blurt, “I’m sorry,” he’s as startled by the sound as Ukai is. Ukai jumps, his head turning to focus his attention on Takeda, and Takeda’s mouth is still moving of its own accord, offering a confession he didn’t intend to give at this precise moment. “I _was_ trying to seduce you.”

Ukai’s eyebrows go up, his expression falling into shock for a moment; then he stumbles over nothing, his footing catching against the paving stones of the courtyard, and Takeda reaches out reflexively to grab at his sleeve and steady him.

“I was doing research on you,” he says as Ukai gets his feet back under him and looks back up to stare shock at him. “After we spoke the first time. I wanted to find a way to persuade you to join the team, in spite of your insistence to the contrary.” He lets Ukai’s sleeve go, looks away across the moonlit span of the courtyard. They’ve stopped moving; Takeda can feel his heart pounding in his chest, can feel it beating a frantic rhythm in his pulse. “It was somewhat unscrupulous of me to do so much prying into your past in the interest of convincing you to join after you had already refused.” He turns on his heel to face Ukai and folds himself into a bow; his heart is still drumming a rhythm against his ribcage but his voice is steadier than he expected, and his hands aren’t shaking at all. “Please forgive me for looking so much into your history.”

It’s not all he should apologize for. The rivalry with Nekoma, Ukai’s own emotional commitment to the competition as a student; those were valuable pieces of information for the team, data that Takeda doesn’t regret finding if only for the benefit they won for the purposes of the group. But there’s far more that he knows, information that bears no relevance at all to the coaching of the Karasuno volleyball team: the line of Ukai’s much-younger jaw, his surprisingly good grades in his high school courses, his close relationship with his grandfather, his years of work as a cashier at the convenience store run by his family. It’s irrelevant to the team but vital for Takeda, tidbits of useless information he has nonetheless collected and stored safe in his memory to fit together into the shape of Ukai Keishin, into the backstory that is no less fascinating to him for how mundane it is. But he doesn’t put words to that apology, lets the knowledge of his own fascination hide unstated at the back of his tongue; it’s not relevant to the conversation, and he’s not sure he could find it in him to apologize for it even if it were.

“Oh.” Ukai coughs. “‘S fine.” When Takeda looks up Ukai had his head ducked, is pushing a hand through his hair with a hunch to his shoulders that speaks more to his embarrassment than the faint color darkening his cheeks. “I don’t mind. It’s all stuff other people know anyway, right?” Takeda straightens and Ukai glances at him, his attention catching at Takeda’s gaze for a moment before he looks away and clears his throat roughly. “It’s kinda flattering that you cared that much about getting me to see the team.”

“Of course,” Takeda says. “I want you to be the team’s coach, Ukai-kun. I realize I’m being pushy, but if my efforts result in assistance like that you were able to offer today, I have no intention of stopping.”

Ukai looks back at him, his mouth tugging at a held-back smile. “You’re not going to give up after Nekoma, are you.”

“No,” Takeda admits. “If you leave after our practice match with them, I will find another means of persuading you to stay with the team on a more permanent basis.”

Ukai huffs something that is a little bit a sigh and mostly a laugh. “You’re a real menace when you make up your mind, aren’t you, sensei?”

“I’m sorry--”

“Don’t.” Ukai waves a hand to push aside Takeda’s half-formed apology as he starts to move towards the gate again. “No point in apologizing for something you don’t feel bad for, right?”

Takeda can feel his lips curve into a smile, the warmth of it involuntary and irrepressible. He jogs a handful of steps to fall into pace alongside Ukai; the other man glances at him and slows his stride slightly so Takeda can keep up without rushing.

“No,” Takeda says. “I guess not.”


	16. Misunderstood

It’s quiet outside of the gym.

It’s strange to have the surroundings be so silent now that Ukai realizes how loud they must have been only in retrospect. He hadn’t noticed either the squeak of the shoes on the volleyball court or the odd echo of voices off the enclosed space of the gym as he and Takeda put the equipment away; it’s only in the absence of noise that he realizes his ears are ringing dully, that the peaceful quiet of the night feels more like he’s going deaf than as an indication of reasonable quiet for the late hour. It just makes everything feel even more surreal than it does, as if the pale silver of the moonlight catching off the dark of Takeda’s hair so close to Ukai’s shoulder wasn’t enough already to cast all of this into a dreamlike state; Ukai feels like he might be a little drunk, like the excitement and nostalgia of the evening have combined to leave him not quite himself but something better, maybe, brighter and more vibrant and glowing with a charm he rarely feels like he possesses.

He blames the flirting on that. It’s easy to smile with Takeda, easy to fall into the rhythm of banter without even thinking; the fact that Ukai’s heart is already going fast on hyper-awareness of the other’s presence is just an additional motivator for his already shaky resistance. If it were another day, he thinks, he might not have succumbed to temptation, wouldn’t have offered the lopsided grin that he knows is the most charismatic thing he has going for him and _definitely_ wouldn’t have turned his voice over on the low growl of teasing every time he has the excuse to say the word ‘sensei.’ But it’s not another day, and it’s late, and between the exhaustion of extended excitement and the soft filter of the starlit surroundings Ukai thinks he can be forgiven for a little gentle flirtation, especially when the recipient is so willing to blush and smile his way through every response.

Ukai’s thinking about that, still, thinking about the way Takeda’s lashes looked when he smiled up at the other from behind his glasses and about how bright his laugh sounds, and he’s framing the outline of another foray into teasing in his head as they approach the front gate of the school, something about walking home late and how happy he’d be to play escort. He’s still shaping the words, feeling the tension of anticipation form in the back of his throat, when Takeda’s “I’m sorry” cuts straight through his idle attention and scatters any thought in his head into sudden panic. Ukai looks sideways faster than he intends, feeling his pulse speed as if he’s a high schooler being called out on staring too long at his crush, and Takeda’s looking at him, his eyes wide and intent behind the clear lenses of his glasses. “I _was_ trying to seduce you.”

Gravity veers away. Ukai can feel his expression fall into open-mouthed shock, can feel his heart skid on disbelieving adrenaline that doesn’t leave any space for reason. His feet trip him, his toes catch against the pavement as he fails to lift his foot clear of the sidewalk, and even as he stumbles his mind is shouting _no_ , is shouting _it can’t be_ even as all his skin flushes hot with immediate, reflexive excitement. There’s a hand at his sleeve, a hold clutching at his wavering balance to steady him, but Ukai barely notices for the roar of overwhelming adrenaline in his ears. He’s looking back at Takeda, looking for the laughter or confusion or _something_ in his face to indicate that he’s not serious, that Ukai misheard him, that some part of this moment that is happening is less than absolute reality; but Takeda’s just blinking at him, his eyes wide with concern but his mouth set in a line of perfect sincerity, and Ukai can’t remember how to breathe for how hot all his body is going.

“I was doing research on you,” Takeda continues, and Ukai doesn’t understand how he can sound so calm, how he can sound so level and reasonable and mature with the weight of a confession still clinging to the soft of his mouth. “After we spoke the first time. I wanted to find a way to persuade you to join the team, in spite of your insistence to the contrary.”

The hand at Ukai’s sleeve falls away. Takeda turns his head, casting the delicate lines of his features into profile as he looks out over the courtyard; Ukai is grateful for the reprieve, grateful for a moment to be unnoticed while he draws the shock back from his face, while he reels in overexuberant hope from his mind as rationality starts to catch up, starts to piece together disappointing accuracy instead of reckless enthusiasm.

“It was somewhat unscrupulous of me to do so much prying into your past in the interest of convincing you to join after you had already refused” and Ukai can feel reality snap back into place around him, can feel the weight of understanding sink into his bones like lead trying to drag him out of the starlit excitement he had for a brief moment of belief. Takeda pivots back, makes himself into the sharp angle of a bow; Ukai stares at the dark of his lowered head and takes the moment to manage a deep breath of air clean and cold and grounding. “Please forgive me for looking so much into your history.”

Adrenaline eases out of Ukai’s veins, dissolving into understanding as the cool chill of vanished hopes weights him into a disappointment he hopes doesn’t show on his face. It was foolish to misunderstand for even a moment, absurd to think that Takeda might have meant that statement the way Ukai heard it; he should have been looking for another explanation, should have been anticipating some kind of follow-up that would take them out of the realm of romance and back into professional interest. It was the flirting, Ukai thinks, his thoughts coming crystalline-bright now with the understanding he gained a moment later than he should have; he was riding too high on the thrill of Takeda’s smile, too distracted by the rush of his own adrenaline to even step back and consider how the other must be viewing the situation. _Maybe he didn’t even intend to flirt_ , Ukai’s mind suggests, _maybe he didn’t even notice_ and that seems suddenly, painfully likely, that all the bright eyes and warm laughter were just Takeda being himself, demonstrating that same all-encompassing enthusiasm that has brought Ukai here today, that has propelled him back to the gym he swore to never return to on the suggestion of a years-old rivalry and the promise of excitement flashing sunlight-bright in Takeda’s eyes.

“Oh,” Ukai finally says as certainty settles into his veins, as reality collects around him to hold him to the present moment, to compensate for the rosy warmth of his perceptions. It’s hard to keep looking at Takeda’s bowed head when Ukai’s the one who wants to offer an apology; he ducks his head to look at his feet instead, clears his throat of the suggestion of any lingering disappointment. “‘S fine.” It comes out a little tense, a little rough; Ukai can feel his face flushing warm against the cool of the night air. When he reaches up it’s to shove a hand through his hair, to steady the tremor in his fingers with the familiar gesture as much as to give himself a movement to hide his self-consciousness behind. “I don’t mind. It’s all stuff other people know anyway, right?” Takeda unfolds, the movement drawing Ukai’s gaze in spite of himself, and for a moment they’re staring at each other again, Ukai’s cheeks hot with color and Takeda’s gaze wide and so unsuspicious that guilt twists against Ukai’s chest and sticks in his throat. Takeda’s eyes are still on him, the gold of his gaze bright with concern as if he’s expecting anger from the other instead of the painful ache of appreciation that Ukai is feeling instead, the desperate weight of gratitude for the desire the other man has shown even if it’s not the right kind, even if it’s not as much as Ukai had hoped for for a brief, insane moment. Ukai has to look away, has to clear his throat before he can manage the honest confession: “It’s kinda flattering that you cared that much about getting me to see the team.”

“Of course,” Takeda says. “I want you to be the team’s coach, Ukai-kun” and it’s as innocent as ever, firm with certainty and warm in the back of his throat and Ukai can feel any resistance he ever had giving way just to the sound of the other’s voice. “I realize I’m being pushy, but if my efforts result in assistance like that you were able to offer today, I have no intention of stopping.”

Ukai can’t fight back the smile that threatens his mouth, can’t resist the temptation to glance back at the all-consuming focus in Takeda’s gaze. Even knowing that all Takeda wants him for is as a coach, there’s something intensely flattering about being the subject of such absolute focus and determination. “You’re not going to give up after Nekoma, are you.”

“No,” Takeda says without any hesitation. There’s not a flicker of apology in his gaze, not a breath of capitulation in the firm set of his chin. “If you leave after our practice match with them, I will find another means of persuading you to stay with the team on a more permanent basis.”

Ukai’s imagination goes hot, flaring with ideas of what _another means of persuasion_ could entail before he shoves them away with a half-voiced laugh as much for his own uncontrolled fantasies as for Takeda’s complete attention to the matter at hand. Some of the heat is still clinging to his voice when he speaks, dipping it dangerously close to flirtation again as he drawls “You’re a real menace when you make up your mind, aren’t you, sensei?”

Takeda doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink away with self-consciousness. “I’m sorry--”

“Don’t,” Ukai cuts him off, lifting his hand to stop the other man’s attempt at an apology. Takeda’s still staring at him, still turning all that dangerous focus on him, and Ukai has to move, has to turn and step towards the front gate just for the sake of having something to look at other than the unwavering attention in Takeda’s eyes. “No point in apologizing for something you don’t feel bad for, right?”

Takeda follows in Ukai’s wake, falling into step alongside the other man; he has to move faster, has to be nearly jogging to keep pace with Ukai’s unthinking strides. Ukai looks at him sideways, attention catching at the straight line of Takeda’s shoulders under his jacket and the almost breathless rush of his breathing, and adopts a slower rhythm to his movement, easing back into a gentler pace until Takeda’s steps fall into something far more comfortable than his original hurried rhythm as they continue down the sidewalk.

“No,” Takeda says, and tips his chin up to flash a smile at Ukai that seizes a rush of sudden adrenaline against the other’s heart. “I guess not.”

They fall back to silence after that, the space between them smaller than Ukai can quite find comfortable but prickling his skin so hot with awareness he can’t make himself mind. Takeda watches the sidewalk in front of them, his mouth still clinging to the last curve of that smile, and Ukai watches Takeda from the corner of his eye, letting his gaze linger against the dark tousle of the other’s curls and the way the moonlight turns his skin all but translucent in the pale illumination. Ukai is grateful to the quiet; it saves him from the need to find words from the pointless adrenaline running hot through his veins, lets the simple task of walking take over his body so his attention is free to cling unnoticed to the dark frames of Takeda’s glasses and the way the back collar of his jacket catches at his hair. Ukai expects Takeda to break away with every passing block, but Takeda doesn’t pause at any of the crossroads, doesn’t even glance at Ukai with the intention of leaving; it’s not until they’re back before the darkened windows of the Sakanoshita Store that Takeda pauses, the hesitation in his steps in perfect synchronization with Ukai’s.

“I need to pick up my jacket,” Ukai says, his voice coming startlingly loud in the quiet of the night. He turns to Takeda, meets the other’s gaze full-on for a moment. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow, I guess.”

Takeda’s smile is like the sun coming out, breaking across his face until he’s glowing from the inside. Ukai’s heartbeat skips, thrumming a wave of heat out into his veins, but then Takeda ducks his head, still with that smile spreading over his whole face, and says, “I really appreciate it, Ukai-kun,” with his voice so warm on sincerity Ukai can almost believe it’s for himself and not for his role within the team.

“Sure,” Ukai says, and ducks his head on a smile of his own, adrenaline surging too warm in his veins to listen to the voice of reason that tells him to be calm, that tells him to keep his mind in strictly professional paths. “Goodnight, sensei.” He turns away before Takeda can look back up at him, reaching out to brace the door while he finds the key from his pocket and turns the lock to let himself into the dark aisles of the closed store. He glances back as he steps forward past the doorway; Takeda is still standing on the sidewalk, his hands caught behind his back and his gaze following Ukai’s movement. Ukai smiles, lifts a hand in a brief wave, and Takeda glows a smile at him and ducks his head in another nod before he turns away to continue back down the sidewalk in the direction they came.

It’s as good as confirmation that he kept going farther than he needed to, that he chose to keep walking in companionable silence with Ukai rather than turning away earlier. Ukai stands in the empty shop for several minutes, staring down the sidewalk in the direction Takeda left and trying to convince himself it was politeness, trying to tell himself it’s another expression of Takeda’s exuberant gratitude for Ukai’s new commitment to the team.

Still, when he turns away from the door, the smile at his lips has all the fizzing warmth of happiness behind it.


	17. Skills

Takeda doesn’t see Ukai all morning the first day of the training camp. He can hear shouts from the gym every time he walks past, can hear the rhythm of dozens of feet catching and skidding against the polished-smooth floors and the smack of volleyballs spiked down against the court, but he never has enough time to pause long enough to try to pick out individual voices from the cacophony, much less to come stand in the doorway and watch the practice drills for even a handful of minutes. There’s shopping to be done, after all, preparations that need to be made for dinner even before the cooking begins, and Takeda’s sure the most help he can be is to leave Shimizu and Ukai free to help the team practice.

He’s prepared to take on the monumental task of cooking enough food for a dozen hungry boys alone, if it comes to it; Takeda’s a decent cook at least, and in his experience it’s more the quantity of food than the quality that matters after a day of exercise. But Shimizu comes in while the last of the practice is wrapping up in the gym and asks what she can do to help so politely that Takeda doesn’t even think of refusing. She takes over the salads, chopping bowls and bowls of lettuce in expectation of the tomatoes and hard-boiled eggs to come while Takeda starts the rice and begins cutting up strips of meat to brown for the pots of curry that will compose the main portion of the dinner. He’s just started the heat and is watching the pat of butter at the bottom of the pot melt itself into a liquid when the kitchen door comes open to admit a newcomer.

“That’s it for practice,” Ukai declares as Takeda looks up from the pot. Ukai’s got his head ducked and a hand in his hair, is ruffling through the pale locks like he’s settling himself into comfort; the t-shirt he’s wearing clings to the span of his shoulders when he moves, the sky-blue color setting off the yellow of his hair like a deliberate complement. “The team’s putting the equipment away now, but they’ll be ready for dinner soon. How’s it going?”

“The salads will be done in a few minutes,” Shimizu offers. “Takeda-sensei is making curry.”

Ukai looks over to the silver of the pots in front of Takeda. “Curry sounds great,” he says. “Need any help?”

“What?” Takeda says, and then he looks back at the pot and realizes the butter is long-since melted, is in fact bubbling itself to brown with his inattention. “Ah!” The meat goes in, hissing as it hits the hot surface; for a minute Takeda’s attention is given over to stirring and the rise of steam from the pot. It clouds his glasses when he leans in, leaving him blind for a moment of confusion, and by the time the steam has faded Ukai is standing next to him to consider the pot.

“Glasses don’t make for very convenient cooking, do they?” he asks as Takeda’s lenses clear from white haze into clear transparency again. “Let me handle the stirring and you chop the vegetables.”

Takeda laughs. “You don’t have to, Ukai-kun, you’ve been working all day already.”

“So have the two of you.” Ukai steps away, turning towards the sink to wash his hands; with his back turned Takeda can see the pattern of damp along the midline of his t-shirt, can see the darker color of sweat marking out the curve of Ukai’s spine along his back. “I’m a pretty good cook, you know, sensei.”

Takeda blinks himself back into focus from the distraction of Ukai’s shoulders. “Are you?” He turns back to the pot, gives the meat another stir to make sure it’s not sticking before he reaches for one of the onions to chop and add to the heat. “I wouldn’t have expected that.”

“Sure am.” Ukai’s returning from the sink; he takes the spoon from beside the pot and resumes stirring the meat while Takeda cuts off the top of one onion and peels back the skin. “I live alone, it’s either that or eat dinner at my parent’s place every night.” He glances sideways at Takeda; for a moment he’s grinning, the angle of his smile enough of a distraction to stall the motion of Takeda’s hands on the onion. “I mean, I _do_ eat with them often. My mom is a better cook than I am. But I like to do it myself too.”

“That’s impressive,” Takeda tells him. He looks back down to the onion, steers the edge of the knife into clean horizontal cuts through the white. “I can make curry but anything very complicated is beyond my skills so far.”

“Yeah?” Takeda can smell the richness of the cooking meat when he breathes in, can feel the juice from the onion prickling tears at the corners of his eyes. “Never had a girlfriend who taught you how?”

Takeda chokes off a laugh that is very slightly more hysterical than it needs to be. “No.” He doesn’t try to explain his complete absence of girlfriends over the last several years any more than he opens his mouth to volunteer information about the few confessions he received in high school that ended with rejections far easier to give than to explain to the girls in question that they were fundamentally not his type. “Just me since I moved out.”

“Yeah,” Ukai agrees without any trace of self-consciousness at having brought up the subject. “It’s nice to have a place that’s all your own, isn’t it?”

Takeda looks up at Ukai. His eyes are watering from the onions, his vision blurred with the involuntary tears threatening with every blink, but he can still see Ukai clearly, from the comfortable slouch of his shoulders under his bright shirt to the unconscious smile as he watches the pot in front of him. He looks content, as comfortable in the kitchen as he does on the volleyball court, and for just a breath Takeda watches him and feels his heart beat a little faster, feels his breathing catch a little bit sideways in his chest. Then Ukai looks sideways, down to the cutting board instead of at Takeda, and says, “Are those ready to add?” as he reaches out for the edge of the surface.

“Oh,” Takeda says, and reaches out to sweep aside the onion peel. “Yes!” Ukai takes the board to slide the chopped onion in with the meat, and Takeda takes it back as soon as he’s done, reaching for another onion to start the process over again.

“This will be ready for potatoes as soon as the onions are all in,” Ukai tells him. “And then the carrots.”

“Sure,” Takeda says. His eyes are still watering from the onions, worse now that he’s on the second one, but he’s smiling at the counter, happiness so warm in his veins that he can’t even attempt to push it away. “I’ll have them ready in just a minute.”

“Awesome,” Ukai says. “Thanks, sensei.”

Takeda spares a moment from the cutting board to glance up at Ukai. It’s worth it, for the smile he gets in return.


	18. Dazed

There’s a lot more to coaching than Ukai first realized there was. As a player for Karasuno he knew how much time his grandfather spent at practices or attending away games, knew from personal experience how much of the day goes to watching practice sessions and running drills with the team. What he didn’t realize was how much time he would spend thinking about the team when he’s not actually on the court, not even from a matter of necessity but just from a matter of interest. He notices things all day, details about the range of heights Hinata can leap to and the adaptability of Sawamura’s receives, is constantly comparing the third-year setter Sugawara to the first-year genius Kageyama and coming up with pros and cons for his mental consideration. It’s overwhelming even in the moment, and so much so after practice that he’s taken to carrying a notebook with him to jot down details just so they won’t serve as distractions while he’s trying to sleep.

He’s been working on it tonight ever since he was done with dinner. He left with the team still wolfing down their second or third helpings of food, confident in Takeda and Shimizu’s ability to keep the bowls full from the still-full pots of curry and containers of rice arrayed in the kitchen. Ukai had planned to take just a few notes before retiring to the bath for the evening, but then bullet points turned into paragraphs, consideration of today’s play turned into hypotheticals for the future, and he’s well into his dozenth page of notes when he hears the door to the room slide open.

“Ah, Ukai-kun,” Takeda says as Ukai steers his writing through the end of his current sentence before looking up. “Are you staying here overnight as well?”

“Sure am,” Ukai says, folding the notebook closed around his pen and lifting his head to meet Takeda’s clear gaze. “Better to be available to the team if they need me unexpectedly.”

“That’s true,” Takeda agrees, and he’s stepping forward into the room, drawing the door shut behind him before padding to the far corner to set down the bag over his shoulder. “It’s wonderful that you were able to take the time off work from the convenience store for the trip.”

Takeda’s back is to Ukai as he lets his bag fall to the corner of the room, as he kneels alongside it and pulls the zipper open to unpack the few things inside. Ukai’s grateful to the other’s distraction, if only for the fact that it saves him from an audience for the way he’s staring at Takeda. He had thought the track jacket was bad enough originally; today’s interlude in the kitchen, featuring Takeda in an apron and with a kerchief tied around the dark curls of his hair, proved that the alternative could be more distracting still. But this: soft pajama pants, bare feet, dark hair curling against the back of Takeda’s neck to drip occasional damp onto a thin white t-shirt, this is far worse than even Ukai’s overactive imagination has yet provided him with. He sits where he is on the other side of the room, his notebook forgotten in his hands as he watches the shift of Takeda’s shoulders while the other unpacks, and he thinks: _I’m completely screwed._

“Have you had a chance at the bath yet?” Takeda’s asking now, his attention still held by whatever is in his bag and Ukai’s still fixed on the angle of the other’s shoulders under his shirt. The fabric is mostly opaque, but it’s damp enough just at the neckline along Takeda’s hair that it’s clinging to skin, the cloth made translucent by the weight of water. “The team is in the kitchen taking care of clean-up; if you wanted to take advantage of the bath while it’s empty now’s your opportunity.” He rezips the bag and rocks back on his heels as he looks over his shoulder; Ukai blinks hard and tries to collect his expression into something even vaguely professional and calm as he scrambles to catch up with what the other has just said.

“No,” he manages, tightening his hold on his notebook as if to remind himself of the subject of his conversation. Takeda’s watching him with as much focus in his bright eyes as Ukai has ever received from anyone; it makes it hard to breathe, makes it hard to remember how to _exist_ , much less maintain anything like the appearance of normalcy. “I’ve been making notes about the team’s play today.”

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Takeda enthuses. “I’ve been thinking about the team myself but I hadn’t thought to write any of it down.”

“Really?” Ukai says, grateful to this tangent of a conversational topic if only for the distraction it gives him from his focus on the dipping neckline of Takeda’s shirt and the way one side of his t-shirt hem is hitched up just above the edge of his pajama pants. “I bet you have some great insights, sensei.”

Takeda’s smile is like a light coming on, like all the warmth under his skin is surging to the surface to glow behind his eyes. “Do you think it might be helpful? I don’t have any experience with the game, but I’ve been paying attention to all the practices I’ve attended over the past weeks.”

“Sure,” Ukai says, and offers the notebook in his hands without thinking. “Do you want to look through what I have and add anything you’ve noticed?”

Takeda’s smile flashes wider. “I’d love to,” and then he’s coming closer, sliding across the floor instead of bothering with getting to his feet. Ukai tenses with his approach, his whole body prickling electric with self-consciousness, but Takeda is reaching for the notebook instead of looking at his face, closing his fingers on the weight of it and taking it from Ukai with as much reverence as if it were a limited-edition publication and not a spiral-bound notebook somewhat dog-eared with use. Takeda opens the pages to the point held open with the pen and flips backwards through them with that same deliberate care; Ukai is left to stare at the dark of his bowed head, to watch the way his lips part and his eyes go bright with attention as he skims through the pages.

“This is amazing,” Takeda says, and then he’s bracing the notebook against his lap so he can draw his glasses off and rub at the lenses with the hem of his shirt. Ukai’s breath catches, Ukai’s attention skids -- there’s the unobstructed view of Takeda’s eyes to look at, the soft dark of his lashes seeming somehow more immediate without the cover of the glass, but his shirt is sliding up too, the catch of Takeda’s fingers in the fabric baring a few inches of pale skin against the flat of his stomach, and Ukai can’t figure out how to breathe with his attention pinned to the line of shadow cutting from Takeda’s hip down to the waistband of his pants. Ukai’s heart is pounding, his breathing sticking, and then Takeda drops his shirt and replaces his glasses and Ukai can take another inhale, if one that is somewhat more desperate than his usual.

“You must have been working on this for days,” Takeda says, sounding warm and pleased and so delighted Ukai’s cheeks start to color with self-consciousness. “I don’t know that I’ll have anything to add, with what you’ve already noted.”

“It’s just random thoughts,” Ukai insists. “It’s nothing special, just what ends up going through my head while I’m eating dinner and the like.”

“Wow,” Takeda says, and then he lifts his head and turns that full-focus gaze on Ukai once more. “Thank you so much for this, Ukai-kun.”

Ukai swallows and shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” But Takeda’s still looking at him, gazing appreciation at him like Ukai’s something remarkable and not just the convenience store clerk he is, and it doesn’t feel like nothing, not when it’s enough to make Takeda stare at him like that.

Takeda’s smile goes wider for a moment, curving into the suggestion of a laugh as his gaze wanders across Ukai’s face. Ukai’s heart is racing, adrenaline too hot in his veins to leave him space for curiosity before Takeda reaches out to press a hand against his shoulder.

“You look dazed,” Takeda tells him, still with the shape of that laugh clinging to his mouth. “You should take a break. Mental recovery is as important as physical rest, right?”

“Ah,” Ukai says. “Right.” He blinks himself back into focus, turns his head away from the distraction of Takeda’s smile. “I’ll take that bath before the team comes in.”

“You should,” Takeda agrees. His hand tightens at Ukai’s shoulder, presses against the other’s shirt for a moment; and then he pulls away, looking back down to the notebook while Ukai is still trying to talk himself out of the burst of tension that hit him with the contact. “Thank you again.”

“Right,” Ukai says, and gets to his feet fast, before he can succumb to the temptation of looking at the curve of Takeda’s smile or reaching out to touch the damp of his hair. It takes him a moment to find his bag, and when he does he just takes the whole thing rather than taking the time to extricate his pajamas from the inside. “Back in a bit.”

Ukai had been worried about thinking too much about volleyball while he washed and soaked himself into languid relaxation in the luxurious isolation of the empty bath. But in the end, it’s not the team he’s thinking about for the half hour he spends staring through the weight of steam hanging in the air, and it’s not until he’s faint and dizzy with the heat that he finally surrenders to returning back to the temptation Takeda is offering all unknowing in their shared room.

Ukai’s pretty sure he’s past help, at this point.


	19. Unequivocal

Takeda spends most of his time in the gym after the first day at camp. The initial work to get the kitchen stocked and to make sure the team was settled was time-consuming but brief; after the first evening the days fall into an easy routine of practice and drills interspersed with various cross-training techniques Takeda hadn’t ever seen before Ukai joined. It’s enjoyable just to stand in the corner of the gym and watch the team practice, even when Takeda isn’t completely sure what they’re practicing; he can watch their movements becoming more fluid with every passing hour, can see the rhythm of comfort writing itself into the ease of the team’s actions and the balance of their stances.

And, of course, there’s Ukai. Takeda tries to keep his attention on the team -- it’s for the team’s sake that they’re here at all, after all -- but he catches himself staring at Ukai more often than he ought to, will come back to himself after minutes of distraction only to realize he was watching the angle of Ukai’s fingers as he holds a volleyball or gazing at the curve of the other’s considering frown as he watches the team practice receives. There’s something irresistible about the focus in his eyes, something in the other’s complete attention that might as well be magnetic for how easily Takeda can look away from it; even when Ukai barks at the team to go out for their afternoon run, it takes a moment amid the rush of the team flooding towards the door before Takeda can collect himself, can duck his head and pull his thoughts back into composure as Ukai jumps down from the stand on the other side of the net and crosses the gym to collect a water bottle and stand next to Takeda.

“They sure have a lot of energy,” Takeda observes as the last of the boys drags his shoes on and bolts after the others. It’s a safe comment, an easy topic of conversation between them, as simple and straightforward as commenting on the weather. “Even though they have to train during summer vacation.”

Ukai ducks his head in agreement as he pulls open the lid. “I saw Kageyama jogging at dawn.”

Takeda watches Ukai lift the bottle to his mouth, trails the motion of his lips against the top as he swallows a long mouthful. “Oh, Hinata-kun was, too.” Ukai pauses his motion, glances curiosity sideways at Takeda, and Takeda goes on: “He said it’s because there’s no mountain crossing at the lodge.”

Ukai’s eyebrows go up as he draws the bottle away from his mouth. “Mountain crossing?” He looks away from Takeda’s gaze, out to the empty volleyball court in front of them as curiosity clears to understanding across his face. “That’s why he’s got all that stamina.”

Silence falls between them. Takeda can hear the sound of Ukai’s breathing next to him, can see the strain settling into the line of his shoulders; when he glances up Ukai’s frowning out at the empty court, looking like he’s entirely forgotten Takeda’s existence for whatever stress he’s turning over in his own mind. His fingers are tight against the water bottle, his forehead creased in contemplation; Takeda can all but see the thoughts running through the other’s mind to turn his expression fixed and unhappy on what he’s seeing in his own head.

“Are you…” Takeda starts, hesitates for a moment. The quiet that preceded them gives his words more weight than he intended them to have and makes his pause go heavy on implied meaning. It could be that bringing this up will just be more stress for Ukai rather than a relief for the thoughts in his own head. But Takeda’s already started speaking, there’s no sense in backing out now, so he continues: “Worried about picking members for the match?”

Ukai cringes, a tiny motion of discomfort, and Takeda regrets mentioning the subject for a heartbeat of time. But then Ukai is speaking, answering without hesitation in spite of his involuntary reaction, and the gravel of his voice is enough to entirely derail any stress running through Takeda’s mind into absolute attention. “I’m undecided about the setter.” For a moment Takeda thinks that will be it, that that will be the conclusion of the too-short conversation, but Ukai goes on talking without hesitation as he sets the water bottle on the floor, expanding on that first sentence as casually as if he and Takeda regularly talk about the future of the team. “In terms of ability, Kageyama’s my pick. Sugawara’s experienced and has played with an ace since his first year.” Ukai turns away, pacing out across the court, but it’s not a rejection; Takeda can see the rhythm of contemplation in the motion of the other’s steps, the action more idle movement to work through a thought than a means to move away from the conversation. “However, Kageyama is talented enough to surpass all that experience in no time.”

Ukai’s back is to Takeda. With his attention angled away, Takeda can watch the line of Ukai’s shoulders with no audience, can track the stress tensing under the pale of the other’s blue shirt as he bends to reach for a fallen volleyball. “Sugawara has been playing all this time.” Ukai’s fingers brace at the ball as he lifts it from the floor; Takeda’s heart does the odd appreciative stutter it always does when he sees Ukai pick up a volleyball one-handed, but Ukai doesn’t turn back to see the way Takeda’s looking at him. He’s bringing the ball to his other palm instead, fitting the weight of it between his hands like he’s feeling out the texture of it. “His teammates depend on him.”

There’s an unstated thought under Ukai’s words, a hesitation he’s not framing except in the strain when he talks about Sugawara’s experience, in the almost-apology when he says Kageyama’s name. Takeda can hear it as clear as if Ukai is shouting, can see the strain of the unsaid sharp in the hunch of his shoulders. He takes a half step, turning himself to face Ukai’s shoulders squarely from over the distance between them. “Perhaps the reason you can’t decide, Ukai-kun, is because Sugawara-kun is in his third year.” Takeda can feel the resonance of certainty on his tongue, can feel the relief of stating the obvious unwind in his chest. “Is that so?” The question is rhetorical more than sincere, and the way Ukai jumps like he’s been shocked is more than enough for the answer Takeda doesn’t need. “The third year is his last year, that’s why you’re thinking…” Ukai’s shoulders tense, his head tilting forward like he’s bracing himself against something, and suddenly Takeda recognizes the tone in his voice and realizes he’s been lecturing Ukai the same way he might a student avoiding some obvious conclusion. He can feel himself flush embarrassment, lifts his hands as if the movement can sweep away the last few seconds of speech on his lips. “Oh, I’m sorry!” Takeda’s throat is tight on apology and Ukai still hasn’t turned around, is still hunched in over the volleyball pressed between his hands. “I’m overstepping my bounds.”

“No,” Ukai says without turning around, his voice so oddly soft that one word stills all the rush of Takeda’s thoughts into absolute attention to the other’s voice. “I think you’re exactly right.” There’s a moment’s pause, enough time for Ukai to take a breath, and then: “When I was in my third year of high school, I was a starting member only once, when our official younger setter couldn’t play.” Takeda’s chest seizes on shock, his eyes going wide at this unprecedented insight into Ukai’s past, but Ukai doesn’t turn around to see his reaction, doesn’t even hesitate with self-consciousness over the words. “I remember the anguish I felt, that I wasn’t picked to play.” His voice steadies, dips lower; Takeda can feel his breathing catch in his lungs, can feel his body prickle electricity in response to the steady weight of Ukai’s voice. “But as long as I’m the temporary coach now, I can’t base my decision on a player’s feelings.”

“Oh,” Takeda breathes. Ukai’s staring off across the court, his back still turned; Takeda can feel his heart pounding hard in his chest, thrumming sympathy for Ukai’s history even as all his skin goes glowing-warm with the intimacy of the information, with the casual trust implied by Ukai’s statement. “I didn’t realize you had personal experience with the situation.”

“Yeah,” Ukai says, and then he looks back over his shoulder at Takeda to flash a grin that sweeps away whatever calm Takeda still had left to him. “Not something you dealt with, sensei?”

Takeda laughs. “I’m afraid not.” Ukai looks sideways and tosses the volleyball in the direction of the storage cart a few feet away; it catches on the edge and bounces itself into the container. “I never had much of a talent for sports when I was in high school.”

“Guess not.” Ukai turns back to return over the gap of the gym between them; the line of his shoulders is more relaxed, now, his hands fitting more easily into the pockets of his track pants. “Spent your time studying instead?”

Takeda smiles. “I suppose it is predictable, isn’t it.”

Ukai grins. “You do kinda look the part.” He falls back to his original position alongside Takeda, reaching down for his water bottle again as he does. “You don’t really look like the advisor for a volleyball team now, either. The first time you came by the shop I couldn’t believe you were the one who’d been calling me every night.”

“Really?” Takeda looks up as Ukai takes another drink of water, tipping his head back to make a smooth line of his throat. “Do I seem different over the phone?”

Ukai shakes his head, swallows hard. “Nah. You just said you were the team’s advisor and I was picturing someone different.” He glances sideways at Takeda for a moment. “Someone older, mostly.”

“Ah,” Takeda allows. “Yes, I suspect an advisor with more previous experience would be more helpful for the team--” but Ukai’s waving a hand, pushing aside Takeda’s almost-apology even as he forms it.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “You care about the team and about helping them improve. That’s better than a lot of faculty advisors I’ve seen.” His eyes cut sideways again, his mouth catches on another lopsided grin. “I just thought you were gonna be some old guy with grey hair and a cane. Kind of a shock when you came in looking like you were barely out of university.”

Takeda can feel himself coloring, his cheeks going red on embarrassment, but he’s smiling too; it’s impossible to take offense at Ukai’s teasing growl, even if he cared to. “I’m not _that_ young.”

“You look it,” Ukai informs him. “I bet most of the team thinks I’m older than you.”

“Of course they don’t,” Takeda protests. “You graduated eight years ago now, you must be right around twenty-five.”

“Twenty-six this last spring,” Ukai says. “But you can‘t be _that_ much older.”

“I’m nearly thirty.”

Ukai’s eyebrows go up. “No way.”

“I turned twenty-nine in January,” Takeda says. “You’re right though, I’m not that much older than you.”

Ukai huffs a laugh. “‘S my point. There I was expecting some old guy my grandpa’s age and then _you_ showed up looking like you did.”

Takeda can feel himself flush. “I _did_ try to present a professional appearance during my visits.”

“It wasn’t about how professional you looked,” Ukai says, still grinning sideways at Takeda. “It was about how…” He trails off, his smile flickering away as Takeda watches; his gaze jumps, skipping from Takeda’s eyes down to, inexplicably, the top inch of his jacket where the zipper is pulled down to show the t-shirt underneath. Ukai’s forehead creases, his mouth tightens, and then he looks away and back at the court as he clears his throat and brings the water bottle back to his mouth for another drink.

“Anyway,” he says as he reemerges, speaking to the court instead of turning to face Takeda. “You weren’t what I expected.”

“Oh,” Takeda says, not quite sure what he missed but very sure something important just occurred in Ukai’s mind. “I hope it’s not a disappointment.”

Ukai glances at him again, just for a moment, his gaze skimming across Takeda’s face and shoulders like he’s taking his measurements. There’s a quirk at his mouth, a flicker of something behind his eyes; and then he’s looking away again, bracing his hand at his hip and clearing his throat at the empty volleyball court.

“No,” he says. “Definitely not.”

That’s unequivocal enough to keep Takeda smiling until the team returns from their assigned run.


	20. Adrenaline

By the time he makes it back to the bedroom, Ukai has completely forgotten that Takeda will be there when he opens the door.

He had gone out in pursuit of a late-night coffee; not the best choice when it comes to getting a full night’s sleep, but an excellent choice for gaining himself distance from the distraction of a drowsy-eyed Takeda so he can recollect some sense of composure and professionalism for what little remains of their evening. He had been thinking about that as he paced out the hallways in the lodge, sipping cool mouthfuls of bitter-black liquid from the can and telling himself he could handle a few nights of distractingly close proximity without coming completely undone, when Sugawara had called for his attention and offered a conversation that proved far better distraction than anything Ukai had yet mustered on his own. He had been touched first, then impressed, then thoughtful, and he’s been turning over the interaction in his head the whole way back to the door of the room he and Takeda are sharing without a moment of inappropriate adrenaline to pull him from his thoughts.

It all comes back as soon as he opens the door. Takeda looks up from his futon on the far side of the room, his eyes wide and bright behind his glasses, and for a moment Ukai’s heart skids in his chest, Ukai’s attention swings dangerously along the thin layer of Takeda’s t-shirt to cling to the line of collarbone threatening against his shoulders. But then Takeda smiles, and says “Did you get your coffee?” with so much innocent friendliness that Ukai comes back into himself with a guilty jolt.

“Yeah,” he says, bringing the can to his mouth to down the last mouthful. The liquid bites bitter at the back of his tongue, chills his throat as he swallows, but Ukai doesn’t think about it; he moves towards his own futon instead, pinning his attention to the white of the blankets instead of the fall of Takeda’s t-shirt around his shoulders. “I ran into Sugawara while I was out.”

Takeda’s inhale is sharp, hesitant and so reminiscent of Ukai’s initial reaction at seeing the third-year that it makes him smile at the sheets as he drops to his knees to draw them back. “Did he--”

“He asked me to make the best decision for the team,” Ukai says, cutting off whatever suspicion Takeda might have with the same startling honesty that Sugawara gave him in the hall. “He said he wanted to play as much as he could, even as a reserve for Kageyama, and that if Kageyama was the best choice for the team that I should choose him as the official setter.”

“Oh,” Takeda breathes, and Ukai looks up just in time to see a smile break all across his face like a sunrise. “That’s wonderful.”

“I told him I was impressed,” Ukai says. “I haven’t been giving him enough credit.” He sits at the edge of his futon, huffs a laugh carrying a layer of self-deprecation over it. “Here I was assuming he’d be as selfish as I was when I was in high school.”

“You weren’t selfish,” Takeda says from behind him. When Ukai looks back the other is smiling, his expression as soft as if he thinks Ukai might really need comforting on this point. “I think wanting to play in a game is a very reasonable thing to desire.”

Ukai waves his hand. “Sure, sure. I don’t mean I was an unusual kid.” He unzips his jacket, shrugs the weight of the fabric off his shoulders. “Just that Sugawara is a lot more mature than I expected from someone his age. I guess I’ll be careful about making assumptions about this team from here on out.”

“That’s amazing news, though,” Takeda says. He’s turned sideways on his futon, the book he was looking through set aside with Ukai’s entrance; when he smiles it’s like the expression is just for Ukai, like the other man is the sole recipient of the warmth in Takeda’s eyes. “That makes your decision easier, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ukai admits. “I hope I’d do what’s best for the team in any case, but it helps to know we won’t have to worry about the third-years being bitter about whatever I decide.” He sigh and rolls his shoulders out; he can feel the faint ache from practice across his back, the strain of the tension minor enough to be pleasant proof of effort, almost more comfortable than complete relaxation would be. “You have some amazing kids on this team, sensei.”

“They are,” Takeda agrees without hesitation. “And they’re just becoming better with every day that passes. It’s wonderful to see the effect you have on them, Ukai-kun.”

Ukai glances at Takeda. “Yeah?” He grins, feels himself flushing faintly pink with self-consciousness. “I dunno, they seemed like they were pretty fantastic to begin with. We have a great group to work with.”

Takeda’s smile goes wider, crinkling at the corners of his eyes and dimpling at his cheeks. “I’m so glad you think so,” he says. “I knew you’d agree once you had a chance to meet them.”

“Yeah,” Ukai says. Takeda’s lashes are as dark as his hair, smudging into shadows against the bright of his eyes; Ukai wants to slide his glasses free, wants to see if Takeda’s gaze is brighter or maybe softer without the extra focus granted by the lenses. “Thanks, sensei.” Takeda exhales almost-a-laugh, ducks his head into acknowledgment, and Ukai realizes all at once that he’s staring, realizes that he’s been leaning in by inches towards Takeda’s futon and off his own. He retreats all at once, drawing back and looking away as Takeda glances back up at him, and for a moment he can’t think of anything at all to say for the flare of embarrassment that’s cresting across his face.

“Anyway,” he says, keeping his eyes safely on the sheets in front of him and very careful to not so much as glance at Takeda at his side. “We’ll have another long day tomorrow. Are you still reading, or…”

“Oh no!” Takeda says, waving a hand in Ukai’s periphery to push away the idea. “No, I was just waiting for you to return. If you’re ready to sleep I am too!” He gets to his feet in a rush, hurrying so fast his foot catches on the sheets and he nearly falls before he collects himself and reaches up to straighten his glasses as he pads across the room. “I’ll get the light.”

“Alright,” Ukai says, because Takeda’s already halfway to the door and there’s no point in arguing. He shifts his pillow, straightens the sheets over his legs, and then the light goes off to plunge the room into the all-over dark that follows bright illumination. Ukai can hear Takeda coming back across the room without waiting for his night vision to set in; it’s reflex as much as conscious thought that brings his hand up to catch at Takeda’s outstretched fingers as the other approaches.

“Careful,” Ukai says into the dark as Takeda’s fingers close on his for a moment while the other orients himself. “You’ll fall right over me if you’re going too fast.”

“Ah,” Takeda’s voice comes, and there’s another hand, fingers brushing the back of Ukai’s shirt for guidance as the other moves. Ukai’s skin flushes hot under the momentary contact, the heat lingering even as Takeda maneuvers around him and towards his own futon. “Sorry, Ukai-kun.”

“No problem,” Ukai says, and then Takeda’s hold on his hand eases and the other is pulling away, dropping to his knees as he fumbles his way back to his own futon. Ukai’s vision is adjusting to the dark, enough that he can make out the shadow of Takeda’s hair against the pale of the other’s shirt in the faint lighting, but he doesn’t wait for it to come into clarity; he turns away before Takeda is under his blankets, moving to lie down with his shoulders to the other so he can stare at the safely empty side of the room instead of watching Takeda settle himself into bed. There’s the sound of sheets rustling, the click of metal as Takeda folds his glasses and sets them aside; then “Goodnight, Ukai-kun,” softer than Ukai has ever heard Takeda’s voice before, like he thinks the other might actually already be asleep.

Ukai takes a breath, feels adrenaline shivering electric down his spine. “Goodnight, sensei,” he says, his voice attaining the range of normalcy his heartrate can’t seem to find. “Sleep well.”

“Mm,” Takeda hums. “You too.”

Takeda falls asleep quickly. Ukai can hear it in the sound of his breathing, can pick out the shift of Takeda’s inhales moving from the steady pace of calm consciousness into the slower, deeper rhythm of sleep over the course of what can’t be more than five minutes. Ukai lies awake for much longer, feeling the caffeine humming through his veins and knowing that his alertness has far more to do with the awareness of Takeda lying just behind him than it does with his ill-advised late-night coffee indulgence.


	21. Reassurance

The train arrives early.

Takeda is grateful to that. He had been more than half-panicked in the course of getting everyone ready and on the train this morning and spent nearly an hour fretting about unexpected delays or misreading the signs for their designated train line. But of course they get on the right one, and in the end it runs even better than on time, until by the time they’re spilling out of the open doors and onto the platform they still have a comfortable twenty minutes to make the walk of a few blocks to Nekoma High School. Takeda is still edgy with excitement, the adrenaline of anticipation for their first real match running hot in his veins, but if he’s nervous Ukai seems downright panicky, his shoulders hunching in around the dark of his jacket like he’s trying to vanish into the fabric. It’s strange to see him so uncomfortable when Takeda’s never seen him be anything but confident and self-assured, but then, if there was ever a time for Ukai to be nervous, their team’s match against the rival school from his days as a player is the perfect opportunity for it.

There’s another source of stress Takeda can feel, a weight like a countdown bearing down on him every time he remembers that this is the practice match with Nekoma, every time he remembers Ukai’s oft-repeated promise; but that’s for later, he tells himself firmly, there’s no point in trying to convince Ukai to stay when he hasn’t yet tried to go. Maybe he’ll change his mind, Takeda tells himself, maybe he already has, and even if not, it’s hardly like he’ll be out of range; Takeda has his cell phone number, now, courtesy of the team’s administrative needs, and the Sakanoshita Store isn’t so far that Takeda can’t visit on a daily basis, on his lunch breaks if nothing else. If Ukai tries to keep to his promise to leave after this match, well, Takeda will just have to talk him out of it by any means necessary.

But that’s all irrelevant, Takeda tells himself firmly as the team surges up the last hill and the front gates of Nekoma come into sight. Hinata yells excitement and nearly goes bolting forward before Sugawara can make a grab for his jacket to hold him in place, but he’s not the only one; the team as a whole is moving faster, all of them rushing forward like they’re anxious to get to the school. It’s still ten minutes before their scheduled arrival time but Takeda doesn’t make an attempt to hold them back; better early than late, certainly, and besides, attempting to stop the forward momentum of a dozen excited high schoolers is an attempt doomed to failure before he’s even begun.

It’s in the murmur of sound from the team’s sudden excitement that Ukai steps in closer, falling into step alongside Takeda without looking to make eye contact. “Hey, sensei.”

Takeda can feel his entire body tremble with the sound of Ukai’s voice, as if his blood itself is resonating in time with the other’s speech. It takes him a moment to breathe against the irrational flood of adrenaline that hits him at the intensity in Ukai’s voice, at the low purr of sound like they’re sharing a secret, and when he does he doesn’t look over to make eye contact. “...Yes?”

“You think I stink of tobacco?” Ukai is still staring forward when Takeda’s attention comes up to him, his forehead creased with concern; he lifts the sleeve of his jacket to his face and breathes in against the fabric as the wrinkle across his forehead deepens. “I went and sprayed this with Febreze, but…”

Takeda almost laughs. There’s something absurd about the juxtaposition of Ukai’s frown with the relative mundanity of the question; the relief of the simple concern compared to what Takeda had been braced for turns into something very nearly amusement on his tongue. But Ukai’s forehead is still tensed with concern, his mouth still strained on a frown, and amusement inverts itself in Takeda’s throat into spreading warmth in his chest, a flood of affection so bright and sudden he can’t even attempt to hold back the smile that breaks across his face.

“Don’t worry!” he says, and he’s lifting a hand to give Ukai a thumbs-up, easy reassurance to match the smile he offers from across the distance of the sidewalk between them. There’s the smell of flowers in the air when Takeda breathes in, the sweet-spicy fragrance from Ukai’s jacket purring warm through his veins, and when he opens his mouth again it’s to blurt “You smell like lavender!” with more honesty than restraint.

Ukai’s head comes around, his expression flickering into shock for a moment before he starts to blush. It’s not until Takeda sees the color burning across Ukai’s cheeks that he thinks that maybe it’s a little strange to so immediately know what the other man smells like, that maybe he should have stalled his answer long enough to at least pretend to consider the question without giving absolute honesty so rapidly. Ukai looks away and down, still crimson with self-consciousness, and Takeda can feel himself starting to color, too, embarrassment catching contagious from Ukai’s cheeks to his. But he can smell flowers in the air, and he’s still smiling, and even with Ukai blushing next to him he can’t find it in him to mind his inadvertent honesty.

Takeda thinks lavender might have just become his favorite scent.


	22. Competitive

It’s hours before the teams stop playing. Even after Karasuno lost the first match Nekoma proved just as willing to keep playing as their visitors, until by the time Ukai follows Takeda, Nekomata, and Naoi out to the hallway adjourning the gym the sun is sinking into reds and oranges on the other side of the glass windows. It’s strange to think they’ve been playing volleyball all day, stranger to realize how rapidly the time passed; Ukai feels like it’s hardly been a few hours, even if he can feel the weight of unaccustomed shouting lingering raw in his throat. Takeda, for his part, looks just as bright as he did when they arrived this morning; even his bow to Nekomata and Naoi is crisp, deliberately angled into perfect politeness like all the ones Ukai has seen from him previously.

“Nekomata-sensei,” he says, rushing over the words like he’s faintly breathless from the events of the day. “Thank you for coming all this way for the match.”

“No, no, thank you.” Nekomata chuckles as Takeda straightens; when he smiles his whole face crinkles into amusement, all his laugh lines folding in on themselves like his face exists solely for the purpose of expressing happiness. “Since you have no connections, it must be hard for you to get all those games together. All those calls you made to me...you even threatened to come see me personally.”

The mental image this provides to Ukai is oddly familiar, like deja vu setting into an echo of a memory of his own. He can feel his mouth twitch on amusement, can feel a laugh threaten in the back of his throat as Takeda’s shoulders go back and he flushes dark with embarrassment. “I’m sorry!”

“However, your enthusiasm stoked my enthusiasm.” Nekomata is still smiling, still looking at Takeda with the warmth of respect in his eyes; Ukai can feel pride swelling in his chest, can feel the pressure of affection straining against his ribcage when he inhales. There’s the memory of uncounted phone calls in his head, a recollection of the polite bow of a young teacher in a carefully ironed suit; and now the weight of a track jacket over Ukai’s shoulders, the appearance of the team coach settling over him like even the comfort of his sweater and apron at the store never quite did. Takeda looks better like this too, Ukai thinks; the color of his own green jacket and track pants makes him look softer than that suit ever did, the clothing fitting the bright sparkle of intensity in his eyes far more than the deliberate formality he adopted when he came with the intent of persuading Ukai into joining the team. Ukai can see the awareness of that in Nekomata’s smile, now, can hear the other man’s respect for Takeda clear in the resonance of his voice and the curve of his smile. “Even if you’re awkward, your students will follow you just the same. Do your best.”

Ukai’s heart skips a beat, his chest swelling with pride the greater for it being secondhand. When he looks sideways at Takeda he can see the other man flushing, can see self-conscious happiness coloring all across his cheeks and trembling at the soft of his mouth. “Thank you very much,” Takeda manages, and folds into a bow so low Ukai thinks his glasses must be in some danger of falling off. Nekomata grins, and Naoi smiles, and Ukai has to look away to fight back the affection of the expression threatening his lips, has to look safely at the floor to hide the giveaway softness that he knows must be shining in his eyes.

“Keishin,” Nekomata says, and Ukai looks up all at once, his reaction made faster on the guilty fear of being caught out in the way he was looking at Takeda. But Nekomata is smirking at him instead of glaring at him, and when he says “Do your best” it’s a taunt under the words instead of an accusation. “We played three matches and you didn’t win a single one.”

Ukai can feel anger sweep through him, can feel the burn of competitiveness surge so hot in his veins that it eclipses even the warmth of his pride at Takeda’s success. His jaw sets, his shoulders hunch, and when he says “I’ll win them all the next time” it’s entirely reflexive, the words spilling from him before he has a chance to think through what he’s saying, before he has a chance to process the implication of the statement. “Just you wait and see.”

“Oho?” Nekomata’s laugh grates against Ukai’s spine, strikes sparks of determination out into his blood; the other man is smirking, now, the comfortable warmth of his smile turning dark and taunting as Ukai glares at him. “Let’s hope you’re not all talk.”

“Sensei,” Naoi protests in an attempt at an undertone. “You’re too confrontational.”

“It’s his fault,” Nekomata informs him, still grinning a taunt at Ukai. “He looks too much like that geezer.”

Ukai startles, even the competitiveness in his thoughts going blank for a moment of surprise. Takeda’s looking at him, glancing back over his shoulder with wide-eyed concern across his face, and Naoi is hissing “That’s an immature remark” in an attempt to calm the mood, but Ukai barely notices; injured pride is surging through him, distracting him from anything other than the burning need for revenge and the craving for victory to soothe the wounded edge of competitiveness in his soul. He turns away, barely managing a bow before he leaves; behind him Takeda manages a more coherent farewell, his apologies catching and tangling with Naoi’s, but Ukai doesn’t turn around, even when he hears the pattern of Takeda’s footsteps jogging to catch back up with him.

There’s nothing for it, now. He’ll just have to keep coaching the team, make them the best team in the country, crush Nekoma and wipe the taunting smirk right off Nekomata’s face. Karasuno needs a coach, after all, and Ukai’s going to be the best they’ve ever had.


	23. Heated

Ukai moves fast. Even at a jog, it’s hard for Takeda to keep pace with the speed of the other’s man’s strides; not only is he taking long, ground-covering steps that Takeda can’t match, but he’s doing it at speed, every movement rushing over the last with a velocity explained as much by the hiss of anger under Ukai’s breathing as by actual haste to get out of the building. Takeda’s not even sure Ukai intended what he said to Nekomata moments ago; the implication on the words was clear, but Takeda can’t catch his breath on certainty, he has to ask to be sure.

“Ukai-kun,” Takeda attempts, but Ukai doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even hesitate in his steps. Takeda’s not sure he heard his name at all. He reaches out impulsively, his fingertips stretching towards the hunch of Ukai’s shoulders to get his attention by physical contact, but he doesn’t cross the gap, doesn’t take the extra half-step to weight his touch at Ukai’s shoulder. His heart is pounding in his throat, adrenaline borne more on panic than on the rush of his movement, and when he speaks it’s the panic that speaks for him, that takes words from the worry in the back of his mind and deposits them on his tongue for release into the air. “What you were saying about coaching only until the match with Nekoma…”

Ukai turns, pivoting on his heel so suddenly Takeda barely has time to snatch his hand back as the other turns to face him. Takeda’s forward movement stalls, his feet stopping him in time to prevent a full-on collision with the span of Ukai’s shoulders, but Ukai isn’t looking at him; he’s glaring back down the hallway over the top of Takeda’s head in the direction where they left Nekomata and Naoi behind them.

“Did you hear what he said to me?” Ukai growls, lifting a fist to shake at the space behind Takeda’s back as if there’s anyone there to see or react to his fury. His eyes are crackling fire, his mouth weighted into scowling irritation; with his shoulders hunched in he looms over Takeda, as if the sheer force of his frustration is enough to grant him extra inches of height. For a moment Takeda is in his shadow, caught in the wave of Ukai’s reaction as if it’s his own, as if it’s his pride that has been bruised past the point of calm. “I can’t bow out now.”

Takeda’s throat goes tight, turning the shocked exhale in his chest into an audible huff of shock. His eyes go wide, his mouth comes open; it seems impossible to have agreement so fast, and so easily, to have exactly what he wanted to hear deposited into his lap without any effort. Ukai’s still not looking at him, is still frowning down the hallway, but Takeda doesn’t look away, couldn’t drag his attention off the other’s features if he tried; Ukai is incandescent, glowing from the inside out with righteous fury and competitive instinct, and Takeda’s chest is straining on the effort of breathing, his lungs refusing to work properly in the face of the radiant intensity shadowing all Ukai’s face into sincerity.

“I’ll have my revenge for sure,” Ukai insists, “and on a huge stage.” He continues glaring down the hallway for a moment, his mouth set on a frown and his eyes shining with anger; then Takeda makes a noise, something incoherent and tiny in his throat, and Ukai blinks, and looks back at him, and the shadows in his eyes evaporate like they were never there at all.

“Ah,” he says, and takes a half-step back and away from Takeda. There’s a whisper of lavender in the air, a suggestion of artificial spicy-sweet, and then it’s gone, drawn away along with the proximity of Ukai’s jacket. Ukai frowns, apologetic this time, and lifts a hand to ruffle through his hair. “Sorry, sensei.”

“It’s fine,” Takeda manages, still trying to collect his thoughts from the scatter Ukai’s voice made of them as the resonance of it purred down his spine. His skin is hot, his face flushed; it takes a moment of deliberate focus before he can even out the rhythm of his breathing. “Are you really intending to stay with the team on a more permanent basis?”

Ukai’s chin goes up, his jaw sets. “Sure I am,” he says, his voice going rough in the back of his throat. “If we’re gonna play against Nekoma again it’ll have to be at the Nationals, with everyone’s eyes on us.” He looks back down the corridor, his eyes narrowing again for a moment. “I’ll make sure we take the victory and prove our superiority.”

“And you’ll coach the team until then?” Takeda’s repeating himself, he knows; it just seems impossible that he’s understood correctly, it seems too easy to get Ukai to capitulate on this point when Takeda was braced for another month or more of effort.

“Yep.” Ukai takes a breath, shakes his head like he’s clearing his thoughts of distraction before he looks back to Takeda. His jaw is still set, his eyes still dark, but the hunch of frustration is easing from his shoulders, the fists of his hands are falling open at his sides. “They gotta be better to beat Nekoma.” He considers Takeda for a moment; when he smiles it’s sudden and so bright Takeda startles from it, his heart skipping in surprise at the unexpected expression. “Didn’t you say they needed a coach to help them?”

“I did,” Takeda agrees. “They do.”

Ukai’s eyebrow goes up. “I would have thought you’d be happy.” His smile fades, curving down into the flatline beginnings of a frown. “Do you already have someone else lined up or something?”

“No,” Takeda blurts, his hands coming up to push the suggestion out of the space between them. “No, I just thought it would take more than that to convince you.”

Ukai’s smile returns, a little slower this time and not quite as sharp at the edges; it’s something heavier, carrying the suggestion of the shadows from his frustration but different in essence, even if it’s still enough to make Takeda’s heart skip against the inside of his ribcage.

“I could make it more difficult for you, sensei,” he drawls. “If you want to come by the shop and plead for my help, don’t let my agreement stop you.”

Takeda’s laugh bubbles up from his throat, irrepressible and sun-warm on his tongue. “I don’t know if that will be necessary,” he says. “I’ll have the opportunity to make my case during evening practice after all, won’t I?”

Ukai’s grin tugs wider at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I guess you will.”

“Right.” Takeda ducks his chin down, pushes his glasses farther up his nose; when he looks up at Ukai his smile comes easily, without any effort at all, like it’s being carried on the warmth spreading out into his veins from the pressure of happiness in his chest. “I’ll be sure to practice my persuasive tactics in advance of our next practice.”

Ukai’s laugh catches on the corners of the walls, ringing loud to fill the enclosed space of the hallway, and when Takeda’s smile pulls itself into responsive delight he doesn’t try to hold it back.


	24. Distraction

Ukai is _exhausted_.

He didn’t realized how tiring the day had been until he was settled on the bullet train for the ride back home with the support of the chair against his shoulders and the soft of the headrest pressing against his neck. Then it hits him all at once, as if the aches of the day were just waiting an opportune moment to make themselves known, and Ukai couldn’t help the almost-pained groan in his throat any more than he could resist the full-body sag he adopts in his seat. There’s still chatter from the team, still evidence of the players bubbling over with more energy than Ukai can ever remember having, and he knows he ought to stand up and make sure everyone is safe and accounted for but it’s impossible to move, it’s hard even to keep his eyes open. He lets them shut instead, lets his head tilt back against the support of the headrest, and for a moment there’s just the low hum of comfort through his body, just the relief in tired muscles so strong as to be indistinguishable from pain for the first few seconds.

“We’ve got everyone,” comes a clear voice from the aisle, and Ukai jerks back to reality, lifting his head and blinking hard as Takeda rounds the corner to his row. He can see Takeda’s eyes go wide, can see the hesitation that stalls him in place in the aisle with his hand on the back of the seat in front of him. “I’m so sorry, Ukai-kun, did I wake you?”

“No,” Ukai says, shaking his head to clear the suggestion of haze from his vision and make his statement more true. “No, I was just relaxing for a minute.”

The concern across Takeda’s face eases, softening into the warm smile that dimples at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve more than earned it,” he says, coming forward into the aisle to take the seat next to Ukai instead of the one closer to the main pathway. “It must have been a long day for you.”

“No longer than yours,” Ukai says, watching as Takeda slides his bag off his shoulder and leans forward to tuck it under his seat. “Sorry for leaving the team to you. I should’ve helped make sure everything was sorted out.”

“Oh no,” Takeda says, shaking his head even before he straightens and adjusts his glasses to beam at Ukai. “That’s my job! I can’t be of any help during the matches themselves, so the more I can do at other times the better it is.”

Ukai huffs a laugh. “You do a lot during the matches too,” he tells Takeda. “And I hate to leave everything outside the games to you. I’ll help out next time.”

Takeda blinks at Ukai. The light spilling through the windows of the train is orange-gold with the sunset; it turns Takeda’s eyes to hazel, lights up flecks of color in them like they’re answering the suggestion of the sunset. Ukai stares for a moment, attention caught and held by the shift of color; then Takeda’s lashes dip again, and he looks down to smile at his hands, and Ukai looks away all at once to stare at the frame of the window instead of at Takeda while he clears his throat.

“So.” Ukai can see the landscape outside rushing by, the details of their surroundings clinging to his attention for a split second before the speed of their movement blurs the lines of reality into a haze of color. He can feel Takeda watching him, can feel the weight of the other’s attention clinging to him. “D’you want the window seat?” Ukai looks away from the motion outside and back to the glow of Takeda’s eyes; his gaze is focused, his lips barely parted on the focus writ clear over his features. Ukai keeps looking at his face, definitely doesn’t look down at the open zipper of Takeda’s jacket or at the soft dip of his t-shirt collar against the curve of his throat. “I don’t mind trading spots, if you want the view.”

Takeda blinks again. His lashes look darker against the sunset glow from the window; Ukai can see his attention flicker out to the glass and take in the motion outside as if he’s only just realized they’re moving.

“Oh,” he says. “No, no, that’s fine, I don’t mind at all.” His head comes down, his chin tilting until all Ukai can see of him is the dark of his hair. It’s less of a relief than Ukai expected it to be. “I was actually hoping to talk about the games with you.”

Ukai blinks. He can feel pleasure unfold up his spine, can feel the glow of flushing happiness spread over his skin as Takeda goes on: “Though you must be tired, it definitely doesn’t have to be right now if you’d rather rest. We could go over it tomorrow, or later in the week, or I could--”

“No,” Ukai says. “No, this is fine.” Takeda looks up at him again and he has to clear his throat, has to cough himself back to a normal tone before he tries speaking again. “I can’t sleep on moving trains anyway without getting a headache. Talking about the game would be great.”

“I don’t want to be a bother,” Takeda starts, but Ukai shakes his head and waves a hand to push aside the idea.

“It’s not. It’s good for me to think about too, especially while it’s fresh in my head.” He leans back in his seat and kicks his feet out into the space under the seat in front of him. “Tell me, sensei, did Nekoma look all that impressive to you?”

“Mm.” Takeda’s forehead creases, his mouth setting in concentration as his gaze goes distant. “Not immediately. Kageyama-kun and Hinata-kun look more exciting when they play.”

“But we lost every match,” Ukai says. “Any idea why?”

Takeda tips his head back and gazes up at the ceiling of the train. “It seemed like our team was flashier but less predictable,” he says, slowly, like he’s fitting the words to his memory as he considers. “Our attacks were exciting to see but we didn’t always connect on defense.”

“Right.” Ukai’s grinning now, pleased with this unexpected insight. “It’s because our blockers are focusing on offense instead of defense and receives.”

Takeda’s forehead creases. “Our blockers…”

“The ones who--” Ukai lifts a hand to gesture to the air, stops, frowns. “Do you have a notebook or something?”

“Ah!” Takeda says, and leans forward to reach for his bag. “Yes, of course, one moment!” He digs through his things for a moment; with his head tipped forward his collar pulls back against his shoulders and leaves the back of his neck uncovered. Ukai’s attention skids, stalling at the edge of Takeda’s shirt, and then the other is straightening with a notebook and pen in hand. “Will this do?”

“Perfect.” Ukai takes the notebook, flips it open past pages of notes in carefully precise handwriting. He’s not trying to pry, doesn’t pause to read anything at length, but he catches words here and there, names of volleyball positions and notes from practice matches; it must be the work of hours, he realizes as the full pages flick past, days and days of study slipping under his fingers as proof of Takeda’s dedication to the team, like an echo of the stream-of-consciousness details in the notepad stuffed into the bottom of Ukai’s own bag. Finally he gets to a clear page some two-thirds of the way through the book and braces the notebook open against the arm of the chair between them while he clicks the pen in his other hand.

“So we’ve got the net during a match,” he starts, scoring a straight line across the middle of the page. “And then the players arranged on one side.”

“Right,” Takeda says, and reaches out to touch his finger to the page under Ukai’s hold. “The setter starts here at the beginning of the game.”

“Yeah.” Ukai draws a circle around the press of Takeda’s finger as the other draws his hand away. “And then we’ve got wing spikers here,” two more circles, “and the middle blockers here,” two more. “With a libero who switches in at the back row.”

It’s easy for Ukai to lose himself in talking through the basics of the game. Takeda’s a willing student and a fast study, picking up on information with the speed of someone both interested in the subject at hand and with a knack for learning quickly. The quick overview of the roles turns into a discussion of the team’s strengths and weaknesses, which flows into hypothesizing about the dynamic in the future and what Karasuno could grow into; after the first few minutes they don’t need the diagram at all anymore, but Ukai doesn’t close the notebook and Takeda doesn’t reach to take it back. They’re both leaning in instead, fitting together over the arm of the chair so closely that Takeda’s shoulder is pressing into Ukai’s; Ukai can feel the warmth of Takeda’s skin through his sleeve, can smell the faint cool-clean scent of what he thinks might be aloe shampoo clinging to Takeda’s hair.

It’s for the best that he has something simple to think about, Ukai reflects distantly. Otherwise the rhythm of his heartrate would drown out any hope of coherency on his tongue. But by the time the train draws to a halt at their stop, Ukai’s exhaustion has evaporated under the heat of adrenaline rushing in his veins.


	25. Productive

Takeda always enjoys Sundays. Even with a stack of essays to grade and all the various chores to catch up on that slip to other responsibilities during the week, there’s a pleasant calm to his day off, a relief from the usual structure of work and team practice and late-night grading over more cups of tea than he really ought to be drinking. Even the team has the occasional Sunday off, as they do today; Ukai cites the importance of rest days, even though Takeda suspects Hinata, at least, to be taking less rest than Ukai likely intends him to.

It’s not really a rest day for Takeda, either. He goes through a few rounds of grading over his breakfast, starts the wash so he can hang his clothes to dry in the sunshine-warmed air in the afternoon, and takes the time to review his notes on the rules of volleyball as much as the skills and weaknesses of the team. He’s made it through an entire pot of tea before he unfolds from the lean he’s adopted over his table and gets up to put his shoes on and go out for a walk around the city.

He doesn’t have a destination in mind when he leaves. The glow of the sunlight is drawing him outside, suggesting an immersion in fresh air that can’t be attained even by opening all the windows in his house at once, and his shoulders are more than grateful for the relief of standing upright instead of leaning forward. Maybe it’s the notes still running through his head, maybe it’s the thought of the tournament to come for the team; maybe it’s just Takeda himself, maybe it’s that his own feet steer him to the front of the Sakanoshita Store before he’s decided to direct himself there. He pauses in front of the glass doors, considering the aisles and the products offered before he spots the rack of magazines at the front counter and inspiration strikes him all at once.

Ukai looks up from the manga he’s reading as Takeda comes in. He’s slouched back in his chair, one foot angled up across the counter in front of him and a cigarette caught at the corner of his mouth; he grins as his face goes warm with recognition, closing the volume in his hands without pausing to mark his spot.

“Afternoon, sensei,” he says, tossing the manga aside as his foot comes off the counter and he leans forward to fit his elbows in the empty space. He doesn’t crush out the cigarette; it sits between his lips instead, drawing Takeda’s attention to the faint wisp of smoke it’s offering to the air. “How’s it going?”

“Ukai-kun,” Takeda offers, echoing the other’s greeting with a smile of his own. “Good afternoon.”

“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you today.” Ukai reaches an idle hand towards his hair; his fingers catch against his ear to tug at the weight of silver rings in the piercings Takeda has never before seen used. “Isn’t six days a week enough volleyball for you?”

Takeda laughs, his attention still clinging to Ukai’s fingers. “I suppose not.”

“You’re becoming a real fanatic,” Ukai tells him. His hand drops from his earrings, his shoulders go back; when he lounges into his chair he looks comfortable, more like he’s at home than in the middle of work. “Here for a social visit, or can I help you with something?”

“Ah,” Takeda says, abruptly recalled from the glint of afternoon sunlight off Ukai’s earrings by the mention of his initial goal. “Yes, I was thinking about purchasing some volleyball magazines.”

Ukai’s eyebrows go up. “We’ve got a bunch of sports magazines,” he says, pushing to his feet as he comes towards the edge of the counter. “Do you want ones with professional tournaments and that kind of thing?”

“No.” Takeda takes a half-step back to make space for Ukai to cross in front of him towards the magazine display before he falls into step just at the other’s heels. “I want to read up on the other high school teams we’ll be playing against in the tournament.”

Ukai looks back at him. “You really are dedicated,” he says, but there’s approval in his voice, the low rumble of a purr instead of the bite of judgment under the words. It makes Takeda’s cheeks warm with pleasure, draws his smile wider on irrepressible happiness at the compliment, and he ducks his chin just as Ukai looks away and reaches out for one of the magazines on display.

“This one covers most of the high points,” he says, offering the brightly-colored booklet to Takeda. Takeda takes it and Ukai reaches back out again, touching the edges of other issues as he talks. “This one’s mostly professional teams, probably not as useful. But this--” as he closes his fingers on the corner of another magazine to slide it free, “--had a breakdown of the up-and-coming stars in high school volleyball in this month’s issue. Odds are we’ll be playing some or all of them as we progress through the tournament.”

“This is perfect,” Takeda says, paging through the first of the magazines Ukai handed him. “Thank you so much.”

“‘Course.” Ukai’s rifling through the pages of the second; he catches his movement to still, flips back by a page or two before he folds the cover back and offers it to Takeda. “That’s the start of the article.”

Takeda takes it. The article is vibrant, full of color pictures and quotes from the players as much as text detailing the team’s abilities and accomplishments. It’s thrilling to see the vivid colors before now. For a moment he can imagine them on the court, can picture the faces on the page on the other side of a net, facing across to match the Karasuno team’s orange and black uniforms and the familiar faces of the boys Ukai has been coaching; for a moment it’s almost as good as being there.

“I’ll take them both,” Takeda says, unfolding the cover of the open magazine and lining up the two atop each other. “This is exactly what I was hoping to find.”

“Glad I could help.” Ukai heads back to the register; Takeda follows somewhat more slowly, reading the text printed on the fronts of the magazines instead of watching where he’s going. It’s not until Ukai says “Watch out,” just as he clips the edge of an aisle with his shoulder that he looks up just in time to throw out a hand and catch his balance against the shelf.

“Probably should save the reading until you’re not walking,” Ukai suggests as Takeda gets his feet back under him and turns back to where Ukai has a reflexive and useless hand thrown out as if to catch him. Ukai’s grinning at him as he leans back from the tilt he had over the counter, his smile alighting into the threat of laughter at the corners of his eyes, and Takeda laughs too, self-conscious amusement spilling up his throat into the almost-apology of the sound.

“Probably so,” he agrees, and keeps his eyes on his feet instead of on the magazines as he makes his way to the counter. Ukai sits back down on the other side and takes an inhale off his cigarette as he takes the magazines to ring them up.

“You studying?” Ukai asks as the cash register beeps acknowledgment of the scanned-in barcodes. “For the tournament?”

“I am.” Takeda offers a few bills in exchange for the magazines Ukai’s slid across the counter towards him. “It’s important to know our opponents so we can be prepared to handle their strengths.”

“Not a bad idea.” Ukai hands Takeda his change, bumping the register shut with his knuckles without looking; he’s eying the magazines instead, leaning forward over the counter so he can reach for the top one and flip to the creased-open pages again. “Seijoh in particular is gonna be tricky. Their setter’s got a great serve; I’m not sure even Nishinoya and Sawamura together will be able to handle it.”

Takeda leans over the counter, considers the white-and-blue uniforms of the team framed by the photograph in the magazine. “Will they be able to deal with Hinata and Kageyama’s quick?”

“Probably not right away, at least,” Ukai says; then, lifting his head to flash a grin up at Takeda: “You wanna come around the counter and sit down?”

“What?” Takeda lifts his head to blink at Ukai for a moment before he remembers where they are. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t be monopolizing your time like this!” He reaches out for the magazines to tug them over the edge of the counter towards himself. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

Ukai’s hand comes out, his fingertips catching the edge of the magazine page to stall Takeda’s motion. “‘S not what I meant,” he says, reaching up with his free hand as he takes another inhale of his cigarette and draws it free of his mouth to exhale a rush of smoke. “You just look awkward leaning over the counter like that.” He clears his throat, looks down as he taps his cigarette against the edge of an ashtray. “Thought if you wanted to talk about the team you might as well be comfortable.”

With Ukai’s head turned Takeda can see the other’s earrings clearly, can track the way they catch the sunlight into a gleaming shine as Ukai shifts. He can’t remember ever seeing the other wear jewelry before, but it looks good, looks _right_ , to have earrings to match the piercings that have been left bare before.

“I’d hate to trouble you while you’re working,” Takeda says, the phrase more formed from politeness than any real desire to refuse.

From the dark behind Ukai’s eyes when he looks up, the other man knows this just as well. “It’s never stopped you before,” he growls, irritation so obviously put-on that Takeda doesn’t believe it even before Ukai’s scowl cracks into a grin again. “Sundays are always slow, you’re the first customer I’ve had in an hour. I’d appreciate the company.” Ukai cuts his gaze sideways to the manga volume on the counter. “I’ve read the new chapters twice already today.”

Takeda has to laugh at that. “As long as it’s not an imposition.”

Ukai shakes his head. “Nope.” He lets his hold on the magazines go, leaving them for Takeda to collect towards himself as Ukai leans back to stretch for an unused chair angled against the wall. “More of a favor, really.” The chair skids across the floor as Ukai drags it around one-handed, leaving it angled outward like an invitation as he pushes himself sideways by a handful of inches to make space. He gestures with one hand, the suggestion clear even in the absence of speech, and Takeda presses the magazines against his chest and comes around the corner of the counter to perch at the edge of the offered chair.

He stays at the shop for hours. By the time he looks back up from the distraction of the magazines and of Ukai’s purring voice the sun is starting to tilt into the weight of sunset orange, the greater part of the afternoon evaporated somewhere between the occasional contact of Ukai’s knee bumping Takeda’s and the easy angle of his fingers on the second cigarette he’s smoked through in the time they’ve been talking. Takeda doesn’t think about the laundry until he’s on the way home, doesn’t think about the papers still awaiting his review until he sees them on the desk, but by then he’s been smiling for three hours straight, and even the reminder of his waiting responsibilities isn’t enough to put so much as a shadow over his happiness. The productivity of one afternoon is more than fair trade for the pleasure of spending the time in such good company.


	26. Tired

Ukai is learning to hate his alarm clock.

It didn’t used to be such a weight on him. When all he had to do in a day was manning the counter of the convenience store he was often awake hours before the electronic beep of his alarm summoned him to consciousness, so the sound served as more of a reminder of an upcoming shift than a necessity to pull him awake. But now it’s the alarm that drags him from the hazy comfort of dreams every morning, the movement of flailing for the _off_ button the first action Ukai takes, and it’s not until he’s stood in the warm water of the shower for a half hour that he can begin to contemplate basic human functionality. By the time he makes it out of the house the sun hasn’t yet risen; he spends the first few pre-dawn hours on the farm, sometimes catching an hour or two of sleep in the afternoon after lunch before he showers again and heads out to the gym for afterschool practice with the volleyball team. After that it’s back to the store to yawn his way through the last few hours of his shift before he collapses into bed, barely sparing the energy to make sure his alarm for the next morning is set before succumbing to the few hours of rest he can fit between his responsibilities.

It’s a tiring way to live. Ukai is constantly yawning, perpetually drowsy and continually struggling against the strain in his lower back or the ache in his wrists that never seems to fade even when he has a day off to allow him to sleep for a whole span of uninterrupted hours. But he finds he doesn’t mind, other than the bleary haze that settles over him by the end of the day; the exhaustion makes the boring work of sitting behind the cash register at the store more soothing than irritating, and the pre-dawn work on the farm is monotonous enough that he doesn’t have to be fully functional until he’s done with his shift some hours after waking. And if work is bearable coaching is ten times better, the satisfaction of his time with Karasuno enough to leave Ukai smiling even through his exhaustion every time he lies down in bed at night.

He didn’t expect to like coaching. He likes kids but he’s never felt the need to work with them the way some of his friends from high school did; he was content enough to sell the team snacks from the convenience store and have that be the end of it. But it’s different to have the team in front of him as players instead of just generic high school students; each one of the members is a fascinating combination of personality and skill and enthusiasm, each one so brightly unique that Ukai can’t figure out, now, how there was ever a time he couldn’t tell them apart. And there is a pleasure to be had from seeing their improvement, a bone-deep satisfaction in watching the team coalesce out of several talented individuals into an almost-functioning unit and knowing that he has played as least some small role it in. He enjoys watching them, even when they’re doing nothing more structured than practicing their spikes and receives on opposite sides of the net; even when Ukai is caught by the stretch of a yawn, the proof of his own exhaustion comes as a surprise.

“Ukai-kun,” and Ukai is turning to the sound of that voice, as helplessly responsive to the lilt of Takeda saying his name as he ever is. Takeda is jogging across the few feet of distance between them, his hair flyaway and his eyes bright; there’s concern at his mouth, focused attention in his expression, and Ukai can feel his heart turn over as he is struck again by this vivid reminder of, of course, the other reason he loves volleyball practice.

“You must be exhausted,” Takeda says, his mouth dipping into the soft of sympathy as he frowns up at Ukai. He clasps his hands in front of him, tangling his fingers against each other; the motion makes his shoulders look narrower than they are, grants his whole bearing the illusion of fragility as if Ukai didn’t know Takeda to be the most stubborn person he’s ever met, wide hazel eyes and soft mouth notwithstanding. “I appreciate you coming daily at start time, but I hope it’s not affecting your job.”

“Yeah.” Ukai pushes his jacket back so he can fit his hands into his pockets. There’s tingling adrenaline running all up and down his spine; with his hands hidden it’s easier to ignore the tremor of excitement in his veins and easier to affect an uncaring slouch as he turns away from the volleyball court to face Takeda fully. “I’ve been working at the store exclusively ‘til now, but now I’m working on the farm as well so I’ve been working the evening shift at the store.” He doesn’t realize until the words are out and Takeda’s eyes are widening how busy it makes him sound; there’s a surge of self-consciousness that hits him, like low-level guilt for bemoaning the rhythm of the life that he chose for himself, that he would choose again left to his own devices. Ukai looks away from the clear consideration in Takeda’s eyes and back out to the far safer view of the volleyball court as he shrugs: “It’s our family business, so I can’t complain.”

Ukai’s not looking at Takeda. It’s enough distraction to have the other’s fixed consideration on him; if he looks directly into gold eyes he’s not sure he’ll be able to look away, and he’s certain he won’t be able to attain the calm he is attempting. But then Takeda moves, so fast and suddenly that Ukai is jumping backwards in reflexive shock before he sees that the other is bowing, folding himself into the position that Ukai is becoming remarkably familiar with seeing the more time he spends with Takeda.

“Thank you very much,” Takeda says, his voice ringing with sincerity so clear Ukai can all but see it hanging like sunlight in the air. “I’ll bring you sake or something the next time I visit.”

The excitement hits Ukai all at once, so strongly he has no chance at all to restrain the spill of delight on the “Really?” he blurts. His exhaustion is forgotten, his drowsy haze evaporating like fog burnt off by early-morning sunshine. Takeda is straightening, blinking bright up at Ukai as he reaches to adjust his glasses, and Ukai can see surprise parting at his lips, can see happiness start to form itself into a smile against Takeda’s mouth. He realizes belatedly that his enthusiasm was perhaps excessive, that the adrenaline rushing through him may have pushed his voice skidding into a higher range than he intended, but Takeda’s smile is dimpling at the corner of his mouth and sparkling bright behind his eyes and Ukai can’t find the resistance to keep from grinning back.

“Really,” Takeda says. “What do you want, is there something specific I can--”

“No,” Ukai says, and he’s talking too fast and cutting Takeda off but he’s too jittery with adrenaline to still the speed of his speech. “No, that’s fine, just. Bring whatever you want and we can make a night of it.”

“Okay,” Takeda agrees, still smiling bright all across his face. He has his chin tipped up to gaze at Ukai; with his face turned up the overhead lights glow across his skin like sunlight borrowed from the faded day. “Are you sure it won’t be an inconvenience for you?”

“No,” Ukai says, fast, even though it will be, even though every hour he spends not working is an hour less sleep. “Not at all. Come by anytime you want.”

“I will.” Takeda’s smile flashes wider for a moment, the curve of it crinkling into the corners of his eyes; when he lifts a hand it’s to adjust his glasses, as if he’s getting a better look at Ukai in front of him. “Thank you, Ukai-kun.”

“No problem,” Ukai says, and he has to look away then, has to retreat his focus to the safety of the volleyball court before the thrum of excitement in his veins pushes him to do something stupidly forward instead of acceptably so. “I’m glad to do it.”

Even with his shoulders weighted with exhaustion, Ukai can taste the truth of the words on his tongue.


	27. Comfortable

The convenience store glows in the night as Takeda approaches. He had hoped to make it out sometime earlier in the day, but he was held up by a conversation at work that turned lengthier than he expected, and then he needed to walk out to buy a bottle of his favorite brand of sake, and by the time he turns the corner to the Sakanoshita Store the first stars are starting to glow overhead. He’s a little bit breathless from the walk, every step a little faster than it needs to be as if that can somehow make up for the tardiness of his arrival, and by the time he pushes open the door to the convenience store it’s hard even to find the breath to form words.

“Ukai-kun,” he manages as he steps through the doorway, and then Ukai’s looking up from the book in his hands and all Takeda’s planned apologies evaporate off his tongue for a moment. Ukai’s not smoking this time, his mouth unoccupied as his chin comes up, and in the first breath of recognition it’s a smile that breaks all across his face, curving over his lips and sparkling into his eyes as he sets the book down against the counter without looking.

“Sensei,” he says, and he’s getting to his feet, unfolding from the slouch he had behind the counter so he’s beaming down at Takeda as the other approaches. “You made it.”

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Takeda says. “I was delayed after work and only just got free.” He reaches up to push a hand through his hair, idly ruffling through the curls as he lifts the bottle in his other hand and offers it across the counter. “As promised.”

“That’s great,” Ukai says, but he’s not reaching out to take the bottle; he’s pulling at his apron instead, unfastening the loops behind him with the easy grace of unthinking familiarity in the movement. “Gimme five minutes and I’ll be out of here.”

“You don’t have to share it,” Takeda says as he watches Ukai draw the apron over his head and toss it haphazardly over the back of the chair he was sitting in. “I know it’s late, if you’d like to take it home and save it I don’t mind.”

“What?” Ukai looks back from his rummaging across the counter, his gaze skipping straight to Takeda’s face with no stop-off along the way at the bottle still in the other man’s hand. “No way, I’ve been looking forward to this.” He hesitates, his grin flickering and easing away from his face; when he blinks Takeda can see uncertainty settling behind his eyes, can see a question forming itself against his mouth. “Though you probably have things to do tonight, don’t you.”

“No,” Takeda says, and draws the bottle back in against his chest as if it will offer some kind of armor against this claim. “No, not at all, I was intending to spend it with you, if you were still available.”

Ukai’s smile catches bright again, the glow of it chasing away the shadow of hesitation in his eyes. “Cool,” he says, and then: “Let me just ask my mom to watch the store” and he’s gone, ducking past the hanging curtain into the back of the space while Takeda remains standing on the other side of the counter.

It’s only a few minutes that Ukai is gone. It shouldn’t be enough for Takeda’s hands to start trembling with excitement, shouldn’t be enough time for all his skin to flush warm with anticipation, but it is, and it does, and by the time Ukai has come back Takeda has talked himself in and out of the word _date_ in his head three times. He startles at the curtain drawing back, at Ukai’s sudden reappearance, but Ukai isn’t looking up and doesn’t see him jump; he has his head down instead, is looking to the counter as he reaches to retrieve the box of cigarettes tucked in under the edge.

“Alright,” he says, and then he looks up, and the way he smiles at Takeda turns all the gravity in the world upside-down. “Let’s go, sensei.”

“Right,” Takeda says, feeling a little bit like he’s forgotten how to speak, and turns to follow Ukai as the other leads the way to the door of the store.

“Sorry about the delay,” Ukai says as the door slides shut behind them. He’s fiddling with the box of cigarettes still in his hand, fighting to work one free as they walk, but he doesn’t slow the easy length of his stride. “I told my mom I’d be going out tonight but she was in the middle of starting dinner and wanted to finish before she came out to man the counter.”

“It’s no problem,” Takeda assures him. “I was running late in the first place, if anyone should be apologizing it’s me.”

“Nah,” Ukai says without looking up. He has a cigarette free, now; he pockets the box again, bracing the cigarette between his lips while he procures a lighter from the pocket of his sweater. Takeda watches the angle of his wrist as he flicks the flame on, stares at the press of Ukai’s fingertips bracing the cigarette in place as he lights it. The lighter clicks off, the faint illumination giving way to the weight of the dark again, and Ukai sighs out a breath of smoke. “You did us a favor, really, mom got the chance to get dinner going before I left the store to her. It’s no problem.” He glances sideways, his fingers shifting against the cigarette as he draws it away from his mouth. “Ah. Hope you don’t mind.”

“What?” Takeda blinks, realizes abruptly that he’s staring, and looks away and down to his feet while he blushes unseen in the shadows of the night. “Oh, no, not at all, please feel free to indulge.”

“I shoulda asked,” Ukai says. “I don’t around the team but it’s a habit on the way home. I didn’t think about whether you’d dislike it.”

“I don’t mind,” Takeda says. Ukai’s hair looks almost white in the low lighting, all the color of it washed to moon-pale against the dark of his headband; when Ukai glances sideways Takeda can see the dark of the other’s gaze skimming over his features, can feel heat rising to the surface of his skin like it’s responding to a touch. “I’d rather you were comfortable around me than otherwise, Ukai-kun.”

“Yeah?” Ukai asks, and looks away again. Takeda can see the tension of a smile forming at the corner of his mouth before he lifts his cigarette back to his lips to take another inhale. “Well, the sake’ll help with that. We’ll see if you still like my real self by the end of the night.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Takeda says, and maybe that was too overt but Ukai’s glancing at him again and he can’t seem to steady the enthusiasm spilling up his throat. “I’m happy to have the opportunity to spend time with you outside of practice.”

Ukai’s eyebrows go up for a moment, his expression going soft on surprise, and Takeda shuts his mouth, certain now that he’s gone too far, that he’s pushed for too much. But then Ukai pulls his cigarette away from his lips and breathes out a cloud of smoke into the air as he looks away, and when he clears his throat it sounds more like self-consciousness than discomfort. “I’m not that interesting,” he says, his head tipped back so he can gaze up at the sky like he’s looking for the first few evening stars to appear. “‘Fraid you’re gonna be disappointed in me, sensei.”

“I don’t think I will,” Takeda says, and Ukai cuts a sideways glance at him for a moment before looking away again. It’s hard to be sure in the dim lighting, but his cheeks look faintly darker than the rest of his face, like he’s fighting back a blush of reaction to Takeda’s words. “You’ve more than surpassed my hopes so far, I doubt this will be an exception.”

Ukai laughs at that, a cough of sound that is as much embarrassment as pleasure, and when he clears his throat and abruptly changes subject to the upcoming tournament Takeda follows him into the far safer topic of conversation. By the time they make it to the front door of the small apartment Ukai indicates as his own any trace of a blush is gone from his face, all his self-consciousness vanished so thoroughly Takeda can’t even be sure he saw it there in the first place. But Takeda is warm, all his body flushed like he’s glowing with excitement, and he doesn’t try to hold back his smile as he steps into the entrance of Ukai’s apartment and kneels to work his shoes off by the front door.

There doesn’t seem to be a point in hiding how pleased he is to be here.


	28. Intoxicating

“Really,” Takeda says from the other side of the table, his voice dipping low into sincerity while Ukai frowns into the nearly-empty bottle of sake in his hand. “I really--I really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Ukai tells him without looking up. “It’s no fun drinking on my own. Is your cup empty?”

“Mm?” Takeda looks down as Ukai glances up at him, his forehead creasing on attention as he reaches for his cup and considers it for several seconds of thought. “Ah, yes, it is.”

“Refill for you, then,” Ukai tells him, reaching out to pluck the weight of the ceramic from Takeda’s fingers rather than trust the steadiness of the other’s hold while he pours the last of the alcohol from the bottle. In actual fact his own hold isn’t much better -- his wrist wobbles as the liquid splashes to fill the cup, and he draws the bottle away before it’s quite empty and drips a few droplets of sake across the table -- but Takeda is flushed pink all over his face and Ukai doesn’t trust the dreamy warmth in his eyes to achieve anything like stability. “That’s the last of it.”

“Ah,” Takeda says, reaching out to cradle the offered cup between both hands as he brings it back towards himself to lower it carefully on his side of Ukai’s table. “Thank you.” He takes a breath, shakes his head as if to clear it; Ukai reaches for his own half-full cup, takes a sip of it over his tongue so he can feel the heat it leaves lingering in his throat. “That isn’t what I was talking about, though.”

“No?” Ukai sets his cup down, leans in to brace an elbow on the table and his chin against his hand; the room is hazy in the corners of his vision but Takeda is clear, from the curling mess his fingers have made of his hair to the soft set of attention at his lower lip. It makes Ukai smile, a little soft and a little dreamy, and he’s still smiling when Takeda looks up and can’t remember why he should tuck away the warmth at the corners of his mouth. “What _were_ you talking about, then, sensei?”

“The team,” Takeda says, firm with certainty, and Ukai’s mouth quirks wider, because of course, he should have guessed Takeda would be focused on his favorite point of attention even when hes a half-bottle’s worth of sake towards drunk. “I know I’ve told you before but--”

“It’s fine,” Ukai cuts him off, lifting his free hand to wave the repeated gratitude away. “I told you, I’ve having a good time, I’m happy to do it.”

“No,” Takeda says, and he’s reaching out to catch at Ukai’s hand, to close his fingers tight around Ukai’s palm and still the other’s motion. Ukai goes still, his arm prickling self-awareness bright enough even to override the haze of intoxication in his thoughts, but if he suddenly goes still with self-consciousness Takeda doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring at Ukai instead, his eyes dark and wide behind his glasses, and when he takes a breath Ukai can feel the shift of the air like it’s filling his own chest with oxygen. “I need to explain, Ukai-kun. I was in so far over my head alone, I was less than useless to the team and to myself.” There’s no self-deprecation in his tone or in his gaze; he’s stating the words like they’re truth, as if he’s not the most amazing person Ukai has ever met, as if he couldn’t run the entire volleyball team singlehandedly if he put his mind to it. “I know I made a pest of myself and I sincerely appreciate you continuing to hear me out even when you had made your own feelings known.” Takeda blinks. Ukai’s attention tangles in the shift of dark lashes, tracks the motion of the action as intently as he is listening to the breathless sincerity under Takeda’s voice. “It’s wonderful to have you with the team, for the knowledge you bring for them and the support you offer for me. I was struggling to gain any kind of traction to assist the team and you joining as a temporary coach and continuing to stay even after the practice match with Nekoma has been an invaluable benefit.” His fingers tighten, his grip pressing hard against Ukai’s palm for a moment; Ukai is surprised, distantly, that Takeda should have such a strong hold in spite of the delicate lines of his fingers and the slender angles of his wrists. He can feel his breathing coming faster in his chest, his attention to the world around them narrowing down to just the set of Takeda’s mouth and the bright in his eyes. “Thank you _so_ much, Ukai-kun.”

“Ah,” Ukai says, feeling tension in his throat, struggling to form coherent words around the lingering slur of sake clinging to his tongue and the shivering distraction of Takeda’s hold on his fingers. “I. I’m happy to help.” He clears his throat, tries to cough himself back to coherency. “I’m glad you kept asking.”

Takeda’s mouth curves, easing itself into a smile that Ukai can feel strike through his thoughts like a physical blow, as if he’s been knocked off what he had ever before thought was the ordinary gravity of the world. The expression is different from this close up, different when he can see the way the lashes at the corners of Takeda’s eyes tangle with the tug of his smile and when he can see the way the other’s mouth parts into the suggestion of a delighted laugh as he flushes into happiness.

“Me too,” he says, soft, like it’s a secret between them. His hold on Ukai’s hand eases but doesn’t pull away; Ukai could slide his fingers free, if he could remember how to move, if he couldn’t feel the heat of Takeda’s touch flickering hyperawareness through his whole body, if he didn’t feel like all his attention is narrowing down to the casual friction of fingertips against the back of his hand. He’s trying to rationalize his options, trying to think through his actions with any kind of logic around the ringing distraction in his head, and then Takeda’s head tilts, and his other hand comes up, and Ukai goes perfectly still just as Takeda’s fingertips skim his jawline.

“You never wear these at practice,” Takeda says, and then his touch bumps the weight of Ukai’s earrings and Ukai’s understanding skids out as it catches up with the topic at hand. “Do you take them off before you come over?”

“Ah,” Ukai says, the greatest coherency he can manage with Takeda’s fingers brushing his ear and Takeda’s eyes gone soft and hazy as the other considers him. “Yeah.” He has to swallow with more obviousness than he would like, has to strain to find the structure of a sentence from the white-out shock in his thoughts. “It’s. It’s like the smoking. Don’t wanna be a bad role model for the kids.”

Takeda’s smile quirks wider. He’s still looking at his fingers, still watching Ukai’s earrings instead of his expression; Ukai is grateful for that one reprieve, since he has absolutely no idea what his face is doing, has no idea how much uncontrolled affection is visible behind his eyes. Takeda’s fingers catch against the metal, his thumb sliding gently against the curve of the ring; Ukai can feel the pressure of the motion tug against his piercing, painless weight to print Takeda’s touch into his memory. “I don’t think it would be a problem,” he says, still smiling hazy warmth at his fingers skimming against Ukai’s ear. “They look good. I’m glad you wore them tonight.”

“Oh,” Ukai manages, and maybe there’s a giveaway resonance in his voice or maybe it’s just that Takeda’s attention slides naturally away from what he’s doing but Takeda blinks, and looks sideways, and for a moment they’re both staring at each other from over the too-narrow gap of Ukai’s table. Takeda’s leaning in so he can reach Ukai’s earrings, his other hand still caught around Ukai’s hand; he’s close enough that Ukai can see the individual curve of his lashes, can see the haze in gold eyes steady and clear as Takeda stares at him. There’s a moment of stillness; then Takeda says “ _Oh_ ” and snatches his hands back as if Ukai’s skin is a flame and he’s just feeling the hurt. “Oh, Ukai-kun, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Ukai manages, because his hand feels cold with the loss of Takeda’s touch and his spine is still resonating with the press of Takeda’s fingers against his ear. Takeda’s going crimson on the other side of the table, the faint flush of intoxication completely eclipsed by the dark scarlet of embarrassment, and Ukai can feel himself coloring in sympathetic reaction even as he ducks his head and reaches for his cup. “Not a problem.” He clears his throat, stares at the surface of the liquid as a safer focus than looking up to see Takeda blushing on the other side of the table. There’s pressure in his throat, the threat of words he isn’t sure he should say; but he’s drunk, alcohol purring away the edge of restraint in his blood, and so he opens his mouth to say, “I’m glad you like them,” before ducking in to hide the burn of heat across his face with the edge of his sake cup.

Takeda’s still blushing when Ukai emerges; his chin is tilted down, his hair shadowing across his face like it’s trying to offer the other a curtain to hide behind. But Takeda glances up as Ukai sets his cup down, his gaze catching Ukai’s over the top of his glasses, and even though they both immediately look away it’s not so fast that Ukai misses the tug of a smile against Takeda’s mouth.

It’s a match for the one at his own.


	29. Balance

Ukai is very warm.

It’s a strange thing to notice, Takeda supposes, when his attention ought to be given over to keeping his feet moving more-or-less forward and not tripping over dips in the sidewalk or nonexistent obstacles his hazy vision invents for him to dodge. But with his arm around Ukai’s shoulders and the support of the other’s hold around his waist it’s the only thing Takeda’s dizzy thoughts can focus on, even at the expense of his balance. Even as he thinks it his toes catch against the sidewalk, his weight topples forward, and it’s only the support of Ukai’s shoulders under his arm that keeps him upright instead of falling to land on his knees on the pavement. Takeda’s hand tightens involuntarily against the soft of Ukai’s jacket, his balance tipping sideways, and Ukai stumbles with the impact, the both of them wobbling dangerously towards the street before Ukai gets his feet under him and the support of his arm pulls Takeda back to balance.

“Sorry,” Takeda says, steadying his feet and lifting his hand to readjust his glasses. “I lost my footing for a moment.”

“There’s not even anything there,” Ukai says, but there’s the rumble of a laugh under his voice, amusement as audible on his tongue as the slur on his vowels. “You really can’t hold your alcohol at all, can you, sensei?”

“I’m fine,” Takeda insists. He is, even if he can feel himself flushed with warmth against the chill of the night air. “I’m _always_ clumsy.” That’s true too, or true enough for Takeda to use it as an excuse; the alternative, that the solid support of Ukai’s body against him is more a distraction than a benefit, is something he’s fairly sure he shouldn’t be saying out loud just at the moment. “I can still get myself home safely.”

“I’m sure you can,” Ukai tells him, sounding more sincere than teasing as they restart their forward motion down the street. “And I can walk you back just as easily as I can stay.”

Takeda can smell smoke clinging to Ukai’s jacket, the heavy bitter of cigarettes almost but not quite enough to overwhelm a sweet spiciness underneath, like the bite of cinnamon or the sweet of vanilla, he can’t determine which. He has to restrain himself from turning his head to breathe in against the sleeve of the other’s coat in pursuit of the faint scent. “I do appreciate it,” is what he says, while he’s still resisting the urge to turn in and press himself as close against Ukai’s shoulder as he can get. “You’re quite the gentleman, Ukai-kun.”

Ukai’s laugh is loud on the quiet street, the rumble of sound in his chest enough for Takeda to feel it hum under his skin like answering resonance for the amusement. “Sure,” he says. “I get you drunk on sake and then don’t abandon you to stumble yourself home, that’s real chivalry.”

“I brought the sake myself,” Takeda points out. He can see the front gate of his house as they approach; he lifts a hand to gesture, and after a few measured steps Ukai sees him pointing and turns them in the appropriate direction. “And it’s only a mile, it’s not that far.”

“Yeah.” They pass the front gate and approach the darkened windows of Takeda’s empty house; the footing is less smooth here, the steps somewhat difficult to manage for Ukai. Takeda goes slow, measuring his easy stride of familiarity to Ukai’s uncertain steps as they move towards the front door. “That’s why it’s no big deal.”

“I do appreciate it,” Takeda says. They climb the last step and then they’re there, the both of them standing before Takeda’s front door with Ukai’s arm braced around Takeda’s waist and Takeda holding onto the other’s shoulders. There’s a heartbeat of a pause, a breathless infinity while Takeda breathes vanilla on his tongue and feels his heart race in his chest; and then Ukai shifts, and lets his hold ease, and Takeda draws his hand away and steps back all in the same movement. He catches his feet against each other, nearly trips and falls as he goes, but then he has his balance again, and Ukai’s turning to face him, and Takeda can feel all his body flushing warm with self-conscious awareness of the moment.

“Thank you,” he says again, aware even as he puts sound to the words that he’s repeating himself, that the catch of nervousness in his throat is slurring his speech into loops of gratitude he can’t break free of. He ducks into a bow, although there’s not much space between them; he almost touches Ukai’s jacket, his hair catching against the other’s zipper for a moment before he straightens and reaches to push his glasses back into place, as if they can help the adrenaline-haze knocking his vision blurry in the night-dim lighting. “I truly had an excellent time tonight.”

“Right,” Ukai says. He looks shakier on his feet than Takeda feels, when he looks up to meet the other’s gaze; Ukai’s staring at him, his eyes shadowed to unreadability by the low lighting and his hands at his sides instead of in his pockets. His fingers curl, his touch pressing against his palm, and for just a moment Takeda’s attention fits itself into the shape of Ukai’s hand: his imagination offers the weight of those fingers against the back of his neck, suggests the friction of that thumb pressing up behind his ear. He can taste vanilla, can smell smoke like an echo in the air, and then he looks up and Ukai’s still looking at him, his lips barely parted on something unsaid or at least unheard in Takeda’s distraction. For a moment they’re just staring at each other; Takeda can feel his heart thudding out a rising rhythm in his chest, can feel the suggestion of the hesitation weighting his awareness with adrenaline. And then Ukai looks away, and clears his throat, and says, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” without looking back to meet Takeda’s gaze.

“Of course,” Takeda says. His hands are trembling; he curls them into fists for a moment, squeezes hard to push away the involuntary tremor along with the rush of heat in his veins. “I’m sorry, you have an early morning of it, don’t you?”

“It’s fine,” Ukai says, and then he looks back, catching Takeda’s gaze for just a moment before his mouth quirks and drags into a grin. “It was worth it.”

“Oh.” Takeda can feel himself smiling, can feel his fingers relaxing as his cheeks flush with returning warmth. “I’m glad to hear that, Ukai-kun.”

“Yeah.” Ukai is still smiling, his mouth still curving on happiness that Takeda can feel run through his veins like the weight of Ukai’s arm is back around his waist. “Have a good night, sensei.”

“Yes. Goodnight, Ukai-kun,” Takeda says, and Ukai nods before he ducks his head and turns to make his less-than-steady way back down the stairs. Takeda stays where he is outside his front door, watching Ukai move back towards the street; it’s not until the other glances back at the gate that Takeda’s smile goes wider and he lifts a hand in farewell.

He can see Ukai’s smile as clearly as the motion of his answering wave.


	30. Paced

Ukai doesn’t go home.

He should. It’s late at night, so late the stars overhead are showing the unfamiliar patterns of the very early morning and the city is perfectly still around him; when he walks his footsteps echo in the quiet, even when he weights them to gentleness to avoid the rhythm that sounds as loud as a car engine against the backdrop of the sleeping houses. He has work in the morning in a few hours’ time, and he might not get much sleep but some will be better than the none at all he’s heading for now. But when he closes his eyes he sees Takeda, and against the quiet of the night the memory of Takeda’s laugh is loud, and if he goes home Ukai knows exactly what he’ll do, can feel the premonition of it written in the electricity of desire along his spine and aching into sunburn heat in his veins. He’s past the point of no return already -- there’s no point in pretending to anything like exclusively professional feelings towards the other man -- but the uncertainty in the back of his mind won’t let him go home and spend too-long in the shower with visions of Takeda’s flushed cheeks forming against the haze of steam, so instead he walks.

He’s not going anywhere in particular. Nothing is open, he knows without checking, and no one he knows would be awake to give him the casual conversation that might be able to help undo the knot of tight-wound adrenaline that keep humming in his mind. It’s not even like staying out on the streets helps shift his attention; the houses are too quiet, the surroundings too still, and when Ukai’s alcohol-hazed thoughts filter through possible subjects it’s Takeda they land on in spite of his exhaustion-weakened efforts to the contrary. So he stops trying, and stops thinking, and just lets his feet carry him along the sidewalk while his mind offers the most vivid recollections it can muster from the sake on his tongue and the affection-hazed memories spanning the past several weeks.

It’s the voice, Ukai thinks, that was the real problem. Looking back it seems clear he was half in love just from their phone conversations; when he thinks back to the swing of his own speech he can taste flirtation on the back of his tongue, can remember the tension of the grin that formeed whenever he picked up the phone to hear Takeda on the other side. Stupid to be so caught up by a few phone calls, he thinks, irrational to be so charmed by just one aspect of another person; but then Takeda had actually appeared in the aisles of the store and Ukai is sure, was sure even at the time, that there was to be no recovering from this, not for him. His capitulation was an inevitability the moment he looked up into those wide gold eyes, his surrender a given well before Takeda had bowed himself into a plea. Ukai looks up, tipping his head back to gaze at the stars overhead, but when he blinks it’s Takeda he’s seeing, the set of his mouth on determination in that first visit and the flushed warmth of happiness all over his features on his last. There’s more details, too: the soft of Takeda’s track jacket settling over his narrow shoulders, the thin of a damp t-shirt clinging to his skin in their room during the training camp, the tentative hold of his arm around Ukai’s shoulders just tonight. But Ukai has to veer away from those, has to push aside those too-clear recollections, or he’ll undo all his goals in walking instead of resting, in pacing out the ache of want in his chest instead of giving in to the friction that will sate it for tonight but only make it worse tomorrow. There’s no point in capitulation, no point in giving in to a crush that must remain a one-sided desire kept as secret as Ukai can manage. There’s no way Takeda wants him the way Ukai wants him to, no way Ukai’s feelings could be so serendipitously reciprocated.

 _But they might be_.

It’s a whisper, a purr at the back of Ukai’s head, one he’s heard before and thought of longer than he ought. He shuts his eyes to the sky overhead, flinching back from the weight of the thought in his head, but it’s too late -- it’s gained traction on the intoxication in his veins, and the exhaustion weakening his defenses, and most of all from the memory of Takeda gazing up at him before his front door with his eyes wide and dark and flickering over Ukai’s face like he was trying to memorize all its details. Ukai doesn’t regret leaving like he did -- lingering any longer would have been a mistake on both their parts -- but for a moment his imagination catches traction off the way Takeda smiled at him, and the way they were pressed together on the walk back, and invents a possibility that Ukai can’t shake no matter how hard he presses his palms to his shut eyes. Takeda’s smile at the Sakanoshita Store hours before comes back to him, the bright almost-nervousness in the slouch of his shoulders and the angle of his hands, and Ukai’s mind whispers _date_ as his mouth curves into an involuntary smile. Takeda’s jittery energy makes sense, that way, forms itself into the over-excited adrenaline of someone visiting a -- and Ukai’s mind skips on _boyfriend’s_ \-- house for the first time. And then there’s the way he leaned over the table, with his fingers outstretched to bump against Ukai’s earrings, with his eyes soft and dreamy and his mouth too close for Ukai’s fragile self-control to bear. Ukai’s still not sure how he didn’t lean in to take the suggestion offered -- he thinks it was from shocked stillness more than any more noble restraint -- but if Takeda wanted...if Takeda had been _hoping_ for it...and Ukai’s heart is beating too fast in his chest, he has to stop walking just so he can stand still and breathe deep against the racing adrenaline in his veins. It’s too much to imagine, it’s too much to hope that Takeda had been standing on his front step flushed warm with the same hyperawareness Ukai had felt tingling all through his hands, too much to suspect that the careful weight of his arm around Ukai’s shoulders had been from the same self-conscious nervousness that kept Ukai’s fingers barely touching Takeda’s waist. Ukai can feel himself flushing hot through all his body, can feel his skin going warm against the cool of the night air, and for a moment he imagines what would have happened if he had had moved in front of the other’s door, if he had leaned in to press his nose to Takeda’s hair and breathe in against the soft of the curls, or even earlier, if he had acted before Takeda blinked and came back to himself, if he had pressed in against the warmth of Takeda’s touch at his face and caught the other’s lips with his. He would have tasted like sake, Ukai thinks, sweet and burning and clinging to the back of Ukai’s tongue, and maybe he would have whimpered at the contact, maybe would have toppled forward over the table so Ukai would have had to reach out and catch his elbow to hold him steady, or to pull him around the edge of the table so he could--

“Fuck,” he says out loud, and drops his hands to blink hard at the darkness of the night around him. The gold-washed haze of his imagination dissolves, evaporating back into the realm of fantasy as he stares fixedly at the sidewalk and drags his attention back to reality by force. “Stop it, Keishin.” He can feel the vibration of the words in his chest, the grounding effect of speech more helpful than the self-condemnation on his tongue, and then he takes a breath and keeps moving forward with the determination to go home, now, before he continues standing on a public street talking to himself in the small hours of the morning.

He takes the long way home. By the time he makes it to his front door, he only has a couple hours left before he has to get back up for the morning. Ukai’s sure his body will protest this when his alarm goes off, but at least his mind is so exhausted that it doesn’t resist when he takes a perfunctory shower and throws himself into bed without more than a handful of lingering glances in the direction of the cups still out on the table. He’s afraid of the possibilities left to his fantasy by the darkened bedroom; but exhaustion wins out over imagination, and in the end when he sleeps it’s absent dreams of Takeda or anything else.


	31. Impatient

Takeda manages patience for five minutes.

It’s a deliberate decision that keeps him standing in the entryway of his house with the shut door behind him waiting to be sure Ukai has left, to be sure he isn’t going to come back. A return seems unlikely, almost an impossibility in Takeda’s head, but he waits anyway, because if Ukai _does_ come back he wants to be ready, wants to be waiting for him with some measure of composure. So he takes his shoes off, and sets them neatly aside, and then he sits at the edge of the entryway and waits for as long as he can find the patience to do so.

In the end five minutes is better than he expected. He can feel his heart still fluttering hard inside his chest, can feel all his skin flushing warm and glowing with the afterimage of Ukai’s touch as much as with the alcohol he drank with the other man. It’s a matter of when, not if, and when finally he pushes to his feet and reaches out to lock the front door it’s almost more relief than disappointment that the impossible didn’t come to pass. Then Takeda takes a breath, and turns on his heel, and heads down the hall for his bedroom without looking back.

He could take his jacket off. Usually the extra weight over his shoulders would be a distraction, the cool from outside still clinging to the fabric would be unnecessary detail for the heat of whatever fantasy he wants to pull up. But tonight he keeps it on, reaches up to tug the collar closer to himself and breathe in against the soft give of it like he can taste the sake and smoke and lavender clinging to the fabric. He can still feel the weight of Ukai’s arm around his waist, can still imagine the solid support of Ukai’s body pressed against him, and by the time he pushes the door to his bedroom open and stumbles towards the bed he’s hotter than he’s let himself be all night. It’s a relief to indulge in the desire, a weight lifted to not have to push it aside, and Takeda’s shutting his eyes even as he drops to his knees on the bed, breathing in so hard against the collar of his jacket it’s almost a whimper in his throat. There’s the taste of lavender on his tongue, the smell of smoke filling his head, and when he drops to curl across the blankets his imagination slides into fantasy with all the easy intoxication of familiar daydreams and a little too much sake.

It’s easy to call Ukai to mind. Takeda has spent longer than he ought thinking of the other man, both in professional settings and well outside them; at this point it’s a matter of details, of specifics, whether he wants to hold closer to reality or venture far afield into true invention. Some nights he creates whole worlds in his imagination, makes an Ukai out of pure fantasy to match some variation of the self he imagines for himself; but tonight the fantasy comes easy, and simple, and so close to reality Takeda can almost reach past the barrier between the present and the invention. All it takes is a change of an action, all it takes is a blurted invitation on his lips and a gruff acceptance from Ukai’s, and Takeda can bring the Ukai of his imagination inside his house, through the front door and down the hallway here, with him, so close Takeda can hunch his shoulders and almost imagine Ukai’s chest pressed flush against the curve of his spine. When he reaches down to fit his fingers inside the waistband of his pants it’s Ukai’s hand he imagines, with his own pressed out in front of him to brace against the wall so he can push back against the resistance of the other’s body; Takeda whimpers at the friction, imagines Ukai groaning something low and appreciative against the back of his neck as he curls his fingers into a hold against Takeda’s length. He can feel the satisfaction jolt all through his body, can feel the ache for more tip him forward to press hard against the bed, and his imagination shifts too, offers the phantom weight of Ukai leaning over him, of Ukai rocking hard against his hips to push him forward. Takeda shuts his eyes and turns his face down against the sheets; his glasses are catching against his nose, the weight of the frames pushing out-of-alignment across his face, but he doesn’t lift a hand to straighten them or to tug them off and aside. He’s too caught in the moment, too lost to the force of the fantasy running through his mind; his skin is hot under his clothes, the weight of the fabric more than his flushed body wants, but in his mind it turns into Ukai against him, the heat an easy price to pay for the weight of another body so close to his own.

Takeda doesn’t know what sounds he’s making. He’s not thinking through them at all, making no attempt to muffle them or to bite them back against his tongue; they’re spilling past his lips and over the sheets under him, trembling notes of heat in his throat as he quivers against the bed. His hand is moving faster now, except it’s Ukai’s fingers behind his closed eyes, it’s Ukai’s breathing coming hard in his ears instead of his own. Takeda can almost feel the weight of someone else behind him, can gasp in the taste of cigarettes and sake when he breathes, and it’s just the collar of his jacket pressed against his nose but in his head it’s Ukai, it’s the other’s presence that is so filling his head with the suggestion of lavender in the air. Takeda’s foot catches against the sheets, his hips rock forward in a sudden sharp motion, and he’s getting close, he can feel the heat in his veins forming to crystalline certainty as his breathing catches and skids in his chest. His imagination is fracturing -- the image of Ukai behind him is dissolving, the certainty of fantasy is giving way, fragments of memory and half-formed illusion are tangling together until Takeda’s heat-hazed thoughts can’t drag them apart. He can feel the warmth of metal under his fingers, can hear the startled intake of Ukai’s breath, and he can breathe the taste of smoke onto his tongue, can picture the quirk of Ukai’s smile gone soft and warm from the friction of Takeda’s mouth pressing against his lips. He can feel the soft of pale hair under his fingers, can imagine the crease of attention in Ukai’s forehead as he presses hard against Takeda, and then Takeda’s imagination offers _sensei_ in Ukai’s purring growl and he jerks and comes over the grip of his fingers, the fractured details of his imagination giving way to the all-encompassing relief of physical pleasure. For a few moments Takeda isn’t thinking about anything at all; there’s just the heat in his body, the shivering satisfaction running electric through his veins, and his breathing slowing from the frantic gasps of tension to the deep inhales of relief.

He needs to get up, he knows. It’s later than he’d like it to be, and he still needs to clean himself up and take a shower before he goes to sleep. But for a minute Takeda stays where he is, and turns his face in against the collar of his jacket, and breathes lavender and smoke into his lungs like he’s inhaling the weight of Ukai’s touch off the fabric.

The thought fills his chest with warmth.


	32. Inspiration

Ukai’s heart won’t stop racing.

He’s never been this nervous before, or at least never this kind of nervous. It was different when he was in high school, when he could feel the anxious energy of a match in his blood and bones like an electrical charge waiting to ground out against the surface of the court or on the texture of the volleyball at his fingertips; he remembers the thrill of the one time he got to play in an official match as clearly as the far more common jittery strain of waiting for the call for a switch that never came. But it’s different as a coach, different to belong on the sidelines instead of feeling like he’s been relegated there, and it’s different with the weight of his coach’s jacket hanging over his shoulders instead of the barely-there lightness of the uniform jerseys. There’s no relief for the stress in his veins, no promise of physical exertion to ease the thud of adrenaline that floods into him with every beat of his heart; there’s just the distraction of the movement on the court, of the wave of action as Karasuno and Tokonami shift through the familiar patterns of warmups and practice receives in the few minutes before the official start of the match. Ukai stands at the side, watching the motion in an attempt to spot any deviations from the team’s established norm, but it’s hard to pay attention, hard to decide if Hinata’s jump is off-center by a typical amount or a worrying one, hard to tell if Nishinoya is struggling for his receives or if he’s just practicing the most dramatic motions he may need to make. Ukai’s still trying to decide when the whistle signalling the official start comes, and then there’s no time left and all he can do is pace as evenly across the court as he can manage to where Takeda and Shimizu are standing next to one of the carrying cases for the water bottles. For a moment Ukai is too distracted by the excitement of the present to even consider the way Takeda’s hair is curling against his forehead; and then Takeda looks up to see him, and the more usual cause for Ukai’s adrenaline reinserts itself smoothly into his thoughts. Takeda looks down, lifting a hand to push through the tangle of his hair as he moves aside, and really Ukai thinks he might have preferred to sit at the end of the bench instead of between the other two but he doesn’t have a choice, not really, not with Takeda looking back up to smile bright at him. So he takes his spot, pivoting to face back out to the court before he can get distracted again by the sparkling excitement of Takeda’s eyes, and tries very hard not to think about how close Takeda is standing or whether Ukai didn’t end up noticeably nearer to the other man than to Shimizu on his other side. The only comfort is that Takeda appears to be no better, in the sideways glances Ukai dares to sneak at him; he’s visibly trembling with adrenaline, his fingers shaking very slightly where they’re resting against the seam of his pants, and when they are gestured to step forward and bow to the opposing team’s coach and advisor Takeda doesn’t see the cue at all, doesn’t move until Ukai touches his shoulder to jolt him into attention. Takeda turns his face up to Ukai’s in a rush, his eyes wide and lips parted, and it takes all Ukai has in him to jerk his chin towards the approaching advisor and coach and not linger to stare into the rapt attention Takeda is giving him. The teams bow, and they bow, and then Ukai turns away from the dark of Takeda’s hair and the shine of the court and walks back to the bench as the team collects around him, the whole circle of the players and Shimizu and Takeda falling into position while Ukai’s heart thuds heavy with panic in his chest. Ukai blinks at the team, and takes a breath deep enough to push back the weight of strain under his skin; and then he lets it go, and when he speaks his voice comes out level, calm, weighted with certainty as if he has the least idea what he’s doing.

“Listen up.” The team is staring at him, eyes wide and shoulders strained; Hinata especially looks like he might start crying, or vomiting, or possibly just lift up off the floor entirely on the excess adrenaline vibrating through him like a sustained note of music. Kageyama’s jaw is set, his expression weighted with intimidation as it rarely is; the older students are a little better, between Nishinoya’s calm and Sawamura’s certainty, but Azumane looks pale, like all the blood has drained from his face to leave just the ghost of tan across his skin to prove he was ever there at all. It’s oddly reassuring to see the stress on everyone’s faces as if they are a mirror for Ukai’s own nerves; Ukai can feel the strain unwind along his spine, can feel the knots of panic coming undone in his veins, and when he speaks the sound of the words on his tongue takes the last of his anxiety with it. “This is everyone’s first match. Everyone’s nervous, everyone’s anxious, everyone’s not their usual self.” A pause to look around at the team gazing back at him; Azumane’s shoulders are easing, Hinata’s panic is forgotten in wide-eyed attention. Even Sugawara and Sawamura look more focused than they did. Ukai goes on. “But you have to overcome those things before they do. Score a big victory first and find your groove.”

“Yes!” It’s a single shout, the off-cadence voices of the whole team overlapping to make a unified sound. Ukai takes another breath, considering the team; and then he looks sideways and offers the focus to where Takeda is standing next to him all but humming with nervous excitement.

“I mean what I’m going to say, and it’s no empty compliment,” Takeda says, his voice audibly straining on anxiety but his eyes clear, the words projected loud to be heard by the whole team. “You are all strong. Karasuno is strong.” Takeda’s fingertips are shaking, Ukai can see them, but his voice is ringing, bright as the gold in his eyes and steady underneath the vibrato of stress with all the rock-solid confidence Ukai knows lies underneath Takeda’s fragile-seeming exterior.

Takeda takes a breath, and then, louder than what went before, ringing in the back of his throat until Ukai can feel the words humming down his spine: “Let’s show everyone in the gym how crows fly.”

“Oh, Take-chan, good one!” Nishinoya calls, his face bright with enthusiasm, and then Tanaka, crossing his arms and weighting the words with a frown: “They say that inauspicious line everywhere we go.”

Takeda’s mouth sets into a frown, his eyes going dark with determination. Ukai’s breath catches, his heart skipping on a beat, and then Takeda says: “But let’s show them,” and there’s no trace of nerves anywhere in his voice as his fist comes up in punctuation, as his eyes flare into the dark of certainty. “‘Look! We, Karasuno, are the champions of old’” and there’s a chill that runs down Ukai’s spine, a shiver of a moment when he can feel the echo of his younger self here, on this court, as if he’s himself and the ghost of his childhood at the same time, as if Takeda’s words have thrown him back into his history to breathe the weight of nostalgia into his lungs. “‘We are winners.’”

The team’s cheer is bright, surging high with adrenaline and competitive energy; it makes Ukai grin, makes him look sideways from the team to Takeda just as the other man blinks like he’s coming out of a trance and lifts his hands to fend off the sudden surge of sound. “Was that poetic?” he asks, sounding so frantic with concern it takes everything Ukai has not to laugh disbelief that the man who was so self-confident moments before can be so uncertain now. “Was it moving?”

“It was fine,” Sawamura soothes, showing the gentle calm Ukai has come to expect from him over the last several weeks of practice. “Fine.” Hinata is murmuring something, Kageyama is turning in to answer him, but Ukai doesn’t listen to their portion of the conversation; he turns to Takeda instead, reaches out to rest a hand against the other’s shoulder with as much casual disregard as he can muster when everything in him flares to heat at the moment of contact.

“You did good, sensei,” he says, leaning in close so the word are for Takeda’s ears only, so even Shimizu behind them will hear nothing but a low spill of a sound. “You’ve got a knack for inspiration.”

“Ukai-kun,” Takeda says, turning his head up to blink startled gold at the other man from behind his glasses. His eyes are wide, his lips parted on shock; for a moment Ukai’s attention skips, catches, lands heavy at Takeda’s mouth while the other lets a breath of relief go. “Do you think that was sufficient moral support?”

Ukai blinks, struggling for coherency, struggling for focus. He can hear the squeak of shoes against the court, can hear the shouts from Karasuno and Tokonami alike, can hear the tells for the match to come clear over the white-noise distraction the crowd has to offer. But Takeda’s still gazing up at him, his eyes blown dark on attention and his mouth parted on soft focus, and for just a moment all the adrenaline in Ukai’s veins belongs to the gold-washed hazel of those eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, and tightens his hand at Takeda’s shoulder, feels the warm of the other’s body catching against his fingers. “You were perfect.”

It’s more true than Takeda knows.


	33. Excitement

The tournament is more exciting than Takeda was ready for.

He was expecting it to be thrilling. He’s been watching the Karasuno practices for weeks, often finds himself caught breathless and all-over warm by one of Nishinoya’s flashy receives or by the easy grace of Kageyama setting the ball to Tanaka or Hinata. When they came in the front door of the tournament gym the sound of the teams warming up was enough to speed his heartrate, enough to flush him warm with adrenaline even if all he’ll be doing is sitting on the sidelines watching the team with Ukai and Shimizu. But then they made it to their first match, and Takeda had been prepared for excitement but he wasn’t expecting the fluttering nerves that settled onto him, as if he was adopting the edgy adrenaline of the match from proximity to the team. He had sat down for the match with his heart pounding and his hands shaking -- and then the game started, and whatever personal nerves Takeda was feeling evaporated, even his sense of himself fading out in surrender to the rush of excitement that comes with watching the team play. Takeda feels like he stopped existing for a while, like his whole self converted smoothly to enthusiasm that rose and fell with the movements of the team, and by the time they’re reassembling after their first win he’s as breathless and overheated from cheering as if he were on the court playing with the rest of them.

The match with Tokonami is exciting, leaves Takeda shaking and so flushed with warmth he’s still struggling to catch his breath as the team moves to their next game against Dateko. Takeda doesn’t think about the upcoming game; it’s all he can do to take the lull of peace between the matches to breathe deep and pull himself back to a semblance of calm. Shimizu seems perfectly steady, composed as ever except for a faint flush across her cheekbones; there’s an irony in that, Takeda thinks, that the third-year manager is presenting such a mature front when the team’s advisor can’t keep himself in his seat during exciting spikes. But Ukai is no better, grinning wide and bright all over his face like he’s ready to go out on the court himself, and with Takeda’s adrenaline running as high as it is all he can do is beam at Ukai whenever they catch each other’s eye, the two of them smiling at each other with more excitement even than the team is showing.

The first game was exciting. The second is breathtaking.

Takeda’s never seen anything as thrilling as Karasuno playing against Dateko. The team has been practicing receives for weeks; he’s seen Hinata’s form go from shaky to steady, has seen Sawamura collect serves as cleanly as if the awkward angle of the ball’s motion was intended for him originally. But all the practice in the world hasn’t prepared him for the way Nishinoya moves on the court against Dateko, for the way he flings himself under the ball even before Takeda has processed that a spike has been blocked. The ball slams against the wall of the Dateko blockers’ arms and Takeda flinches, the sound like a bell tolling a point lost -- except that Nishinoya is there, somehow, every time, fitting himself between the weight of the ball and the flat of the floor to save the point, to save the spike, to save the team from another number on the scoreboard. If Tokonami was exciting Dateko is nerve-wracking, with the constant threat of loss skidding towards the floor before Nishinoya appears as if by magic to push it back for another attempt at a point. Takeda’s heart is pounding in his chest, his breathing coming in gasps around the weight of strain in his throat as the first set ends, as the second proceeds, as the points collect on either side as testament to the effort of the game. He’s trembling by the time the score has stacked to the twenties, his heart racing faster and faster with each smack of the volleyball against the court. Kageyama catches the ball against his fingertips, sends it arcing through the air to Azumane; Azumane’s feet leave the ground, his arm swings through the air, and Takeda is flinching even before the spike slams against the palms of the Dateko blockers, turning his head half-away from the inevitable point loss. The ball is falling, a straight-line collapse to the court, there’s no one there -- and then Nishinoya moves, instantly, without hesitating, the very stability of his stance sliding wide as he kicks his foot sideways. Takeda hisses an inhale, the ball rebounds off Nishinoya’s sneaker, and beside him Ukai shouts wordless approval as the ball rises back into the air in sync with the hope in Takeda’s throat.

“Kageyama, cover!” Nishinoya shouts, the words straining in his throat as shoes squeak against the floor. Takeda’s shoulders are hunched forward, his heart fluttering in his throat, and Kageyama shouts “Yes!” even as he’s moving, darting forward across the floor to angle himself under the rising volleyball. There’s a chorus of sound, Sugawara shouting from the sidelines and the roar of the crowd in the bleachers, but loud, clear over the others, is Azumane: “I won’t stop ‘til I score!” with his arm upraised and his cheeks flushed with determination. Takeda’s breath catches at the set focus in Azumane’s face, at the strain behind his eyes and the tense line of his mouth; and then Kageyama’s fingertips touch the ball, and it’s arcing through the air towards Azumane again.

Takeda takes a breath, startled into reaction by the ball’s trajectory, and when he speaks it’s a blurt, surprise running fast over his tongue as he asks, “Kageyama-kun’s tossing to him again?” the question as much to himself as to Ukai.

“It’s fine,” Ukai says, fast from next to him, and Takeda looks sideways, his heart skidding on familiar adrenaline at how close Ukai is, at the focused determination behind the other’s eyes. Ukai doesn’t look at Takeda, doesn’t turn away from the court; Takeda’s not sure he’s even remembering to blink.

“Huh?” Takeda’s throat asks for him, his attention held taut against Ukai’s features.

“That was the best he could have done, sensei,” Ukai says, still without looking sideways, but Takeda can feel the force of the words ripple down his spine like a touch, like the focus in Ukai’s fixed gaze was turned full on him for the rumble of that word to vibrate under his skin. In his periphery Takeda can see Azumane leaping, can hear the screams of the team and the audience and the entire room hum through him like heat in summer air, but when he turns to look at the court it’s with his chest gone tight on the weight of Ukai’s voice, with his eyes hot with almost-tears to echo the unmistakeable emotion in Ukai’s throat. Azumane’s arm swings forward, his palm connects with the ball; and it catches at the blockers’ hands, ricocheting back to balance at the top edge of the volleyball net and roll along it with unbelievable balance. The room goes silent, the air goes tight with simultaneous inhales from hundreds of lips; and then the ball tips, and falls, and lands hard against the floor on Dateko’s side of the net.

Takeda doesn’t remember standing. He doesn’t remember lurching to his feet, or raising his hands over his head, or screaming the enthusiasm that leaves his throat raw and aching in the wake of the first rush of adrenaline. But he remembers Ukai’s voice, when he thinks of it later, remembers the low rumble of the other’s words gone rough on the emotion of his statement.

Takeda doesn’t think he’s ever going to forget the weight of the pride in Ukai’s tone.


	34. Watching

They catch the very end of Seijoh’s match. Ukai is glad for that; Takeda has told him about the single practice match Karasuno had before he joined as coach, but it’s not the same to hear about a match secondhand, even with the admittedly detailed notes Takeda took on the experience. As soon as Karasuno’s match with Dateko concluded Ukai had started thinking about Aoba Johsai, had shifted his mental focus from the immediacy of the on-court competition to preparation for the next match, and he’s watching the game even as the team files into the seats overlooking the court in a shuffle of motion slow enough to speak to the players’ exhaustion, even if Hinata and Nishinoya’s voices remain as clear and bright as ever as they settle into place to watch the end of the match on the court below. Ukai takes a seat in the middle of the row behind the team, makes sure he has a clear line of sight to the game below; and then Takeda sits down next to him, and all Ukai’s attention slides away along with his calm.

It’s not that the seats are that close. If Takeda were anyone else Ukai wouldn’t even notice, wouldn’t think anything at all of the warm presence a few inches from his elbow. But Takeda isn’t anyone else, and when he reaches up to adjust his glasses Ukai’s focus follows the motion as if drawn by a leash, his gaze catching at the angle of Takeda’s wrist as he moves before sliding along the part of his lips to the curve of his throat, to the sheen of sweat catching a few curls of dark hair flat to the skin at the back of his neck. Takeda is a little breathless, from the rushed climb to the seats or just excitement Ukai’s not sure, but his eyes are bright behind his glasses, his mouth curving into a smile as he looks out over the Karasuno players aligned in the row in front of them. He looks proud, looks like he’s glowing from the inside out with happiness at their recent paired victories; and then he turns his head and sees Ukai watching him before the other can collect himself enough to turn away. Takeda’s smile goes wider, dimpling at the corner of his mouth and crinkling the corners of his eyes, and then he leans in without the least sign of hesitation, tipping in against the armrest between the warmth of his body and Ukai’s to murmur, “I’m glad we were able to make it to the game,” as softly as if the words are a secret to be shared between his lips and Ukai’s ear.

Ukai can feel his stomach dropping as if it’s in free-fall, can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage with a frantic haste that has nothing to do with excitement for the game in front of him. He leans sideways, lets his weight press hard against the elbow he has weighted at the armrest; when he speaks he can feel the words hum electric on his tongue, as if fired with infinitely more energy than the context of his speech requires. “The team had a match against those same players, right?”

Ukai knows the answer. He long since matched Takeda’s description of the practice match to the active players on Seijoh’s team, and he can see the jersey numbers on the court to match movements to the faces he’s learned from the effusive magazine articles that offer summaries and quotes from the players of minimal interest and less real value. But he asks anyway, because Takeda is smiling at him like he is, and Takeda doesn’t protest the question, just ducks his head in a nod and looks out at the court as he lifts a hand to indicate. “All except the setter.”

“Oikawa,” Ukai says without looking away from Takeda’s face.

Takeda nods. His eyes are bright, his attention focused; Ukai thinks he might be at his most beautiful like this, when he forgets to be jittery and forgets even to smile himself into nonthreatening charm. There’s a set to his mouth, a light behind his eyes that Ukai recognizes, that Ukai remembers from bowing apologies far less sincere than they sounded and can match to the weight of a voice firm on determination over a phone line. “He only played at the very end,” Takeda says as Oikawa tosses the volleyball up, as he strides forward into a jump to the sound of the audience’s rising roar of enthusiasm. “But his serve was incredible.” Oikawa’s hand hits the volleyball and it flies across the net in an arc so smooth Ukai has trouble tracking it; the opposing team dives for the ball but it’s on the floor before anyone has even moved, bouncing off into a point as Oikawa’s feet land back against the court.

Takeda sighs, a sound as much appreciation as concern, and Ukai looks back at him, his attention recentering on the other man from his brief detour to distraction by the motion on the court. Takeda’s smiling again, his mouth quirked on excitement Ukai is fairly sure is unconscious, and there’s a light behind his eyes, the flare of competitive adrenaline Ukai can recognize as well in others as he can feel it pressing inside his own chest. It tugs tension at the corner of his mouth, pulls him towards a grin he can’t repress, and by the time Takeda looks back Ukai’s smiling at him and doesn’t even attempt to turn aside to direct the expression at the court.

“It’s going to be a great game,” Ukai says without looking away from the light shining in Takeda’s eyes.

“It is,” Takeda says, steady and certain on the words like he knows them to be true. “Whoever we end up playing.” His hand comes up, his fingers curling into a fist like he’s centering himself; when he looks back to the court his gaze is bright on attention. “We’re going to play well.”

“Yeah,” Ukai says, and then he has to look away or the purpose of attending this match at all will be lost, all the benefit he can gain from seeing their opponents play will be scattered to the distraction of Takeda so close next to him. He leans forward over his knees instead, rests his weight against his arms to steady himself, and then he lets his attention center on the match happening on the court below without getting pulled aside by the startled intake of air Takeda makes with every point either side scores.

They’re going to play a great game, Ukai is sure of it, and they’re going to win.


	35. Reassure

They regroup in the gym. It’s late in the day; the sun sank below the horizon long enough ago that the last haze of illumination has faded to dark on the other side of the gym windows, and Takeda is exhausted through his whole body, can feel the weight of the day’s unusual excitement aching across his shoulders and in the brace of his knees as they file into the gym. But the team must be more tired than he is after their games, and more importantly he has to keep up the appearance of being unshakeable, and most importantly of all Ukai is glancing over at him as the team collects in front of them, a smile clinging to the corner of his mouth that is more than enough to call up a shiver of delighted adrenaline all through Takeda’s body. He takes his position on the far side of the whiteboard set up in front of the window, catches Ukai’s eye for a smile, and then turns out to look over their team as Ukai begins to speak.

“Today’s match against Dateko is what you call ‘the first sip of beer.’” The team blinks, Takeda flinches, but Ukai doesn’t seem to notice either of the reactions; he has his head angled back, is gazing at the ceiling of the gym and speaking with a resonance of remembered pleasure under his voice that shivers down the length of Takeda’s spine as if Ukai’s voice is carrying the same cool crispness that he’s describing to the rest of his uncomprehending audience. “The deliciousness of the first sip of beer is special, and you only get it in that first sip.”

Takeda considers the blank expressions on the faces in front of them, considers the distant distraction in Ukai’s voice, and then he looks sideways at the other man to offer a tentative: “Ukai-kun, we should phrase that differently for the minors here.”

Ukai pauses for a moment. His forehead creases, his mouth sets; Takeda is aware that amusement shouldn’t be what he’s feeling right now, but that awareness doesn’t have an effect on the tickle of a laugh threatening the back of his throat. Ukai lifts his hand to his head, clears his throat aggressively as if he’s resetting himself, and Takeda looks away and fights back a smile as Ukai resumes, a little more generally: “Well, the match with Dateko was the first time we used the freak quick against them. Therefore, we were able to catch our opponents off guard. But we’ve fought Seijoh once in the past, so they know at least some of our tricks. Still.” Ukai’s head shifts in Takeda’s periphery, his chin coming down into certainty; Takeda glances away from the team and over at the other man, just to see the shadow of determination settle behind his eyes. “I’m certain that your offense is stronger than theirs.” Ukai’s expression is focused, his words steady; Takeda can feel the sound of the other’s words purr reassurance all down his spine and ease away the prickle of nervous adrenaline he has about tomorrow’s match.

Ukai continues. “First, we need to endure Oikawa’s serves. His serves controlling the game’s pace is what we want the least, but that’s most likely what will happen. So, for right now, we have the basic ‘everyone who’s not the setter goes after the ball’ formation to receive serves.” He turns to the whiteboard and reaches up for a marker to draw the shape of the formation on the board. Takeda turns his head to watch; the pattern is familiar, one he’s outlined in his own notebook over the course of multiple conversations with Ukai after practice or over the counter of the Sakanoshita Store. The shape of the team layout forms under Ukai’s fingertips, the circles indicating the seven players laid out on the outline of the volleyball court, and then he turns back around to the team, recapping the marker in his hands as he does. “However, this time, we won’t have the middle blocker, Hinata or Tsukishima, participate in receiving the serve. They’ll concentrate solely on attacking.”

Takeda can see Hinata’s face fall as Tsukishima drawls “‘Kay” from his position at the back of the group. “Okay,” Hinata echoes, though with even less enthusiasm than the complete lack Tsukishima was able to muster.

“Hey,” Ukai growls, “don’t get so bummed out. We’re just dividing up the work. Oh, also.” He focuses on the team at large. “You guys saw Seijoh and thought, ‘Oh, crap. They’re strong,’ right?”

Takeda can see motion ripple through the team, the whole group of them drawing back in surprise at Ukai’s comment. It makes him smile, makes him look up to the other man, and Ukai is still talking, his voice still that steady resonance in the air like he’s the final authority on the subject. “But if you were seeing our match against Dateko from the stands, you’d hesitate, saying, ‘What’s with that blocking? Talk about scary. We can’t win,’ right?” Ukai’s chin comes down, his face falling into shadow; when he smiles there’s an edge to it, the weight of competitive victory dark and hot behind his expression. “But you fought them, and you won. Tomorrow will be the same.”

Takeda looks back at the team. They aren’t looking at him; they’re all watching Ukai, shocked expressions slowly fading into smiles across the group before someone -- Takeda isn’t sure who, though he suspect Sawamura -- starts off a roar of “All right!” so loud that Takeda can feel the sound hum against the back of his teeth. Whatever exhaustion is still lingering from the day is gone when Takeda looks for it; there’s just bright excitement on every face, adrenaline cresting high across the whole array of players before them. Even Tsukishima looks faintly brighter, like he’s reflecting some of the enthusiasm from the teammates around him.

“All right,” Ukai says, loud over the murmur of the team’s cheer dying down. “Let’s clarify the formation a bit.” There’s a shout of agreement, “Yeah!” sounding from a dozen mouths at once, and Takeda looks over just as Ukai glances in his direction. Takeda’s smiling already, glowing all under his skin with happiness at the team’s excitement, but Ukai’s mouth curves as he looks at him, his eyes going bright with delight for a moment. Takeda can feel his heart speed in his chest, can feel the pleasure already in him crest higher and press tight against the inside of his ribcage; for a moment it’s hard even to breathe, with Ukai smiling at him and his eyes as soft as they are. Takeda’s breathing is coming faster, he’s just reaching for something to say when: “Ukai-san,” in an unfamiliar voice from the doorway, and Ukai turns to look at the sound of his name.

“Oh, Mori.” Ukai sounds chipper, like all the lightness in his eyes has spread to his voice as well; it makes Takeda’s heart skid, aches something tight and anxious in his chest, loneliness or desire he’s not sure which.

The stranger -- Mori, Ukai called him -- is stepping forward through the door of the gym, holding up the shape of a CD inside a clear plastic jewel case. “This is today’s match.”

“Sweet. Thanks.” Ukai reaches out to take the CD; he still sounds light, easy, like there’s no tension in him at all. “This helps out a lot. Next round’s on me.”

Takeda can feel his stomach drop. There’s a twist of chill in his body, the sour edge of something unpleasant in the back of his thoughts; he can feel his smile fade, can feel the warmth of happiness that was saturating his vision to gold a moment before cool and dim. Mori is delighted, chirping an “All right! Yeah!” at Ukai’s offer, but Takeda isn’t looking at him; he’s looking at Ukai, at the faint smile at his mouth as he considers the CD in his hand, and he doesn’t look away even as Mori says, “See ya,” and moves back towards the door to leave them alone. Ukai lifts his hand to wave farewell and Takeda steps forward, opening his mouth to speak before he can think through what the tight pressure in the back of his throat is going to say.

“Is that the Aoba Johsai match?” he asks, the words coming out surprisingly calm given how frantically his heart is beating. He’s thinking about the way Ukai’s head tips back when he laughs, the way his lips catch at the edge of a sake cup, his attention tangled into the alcohol-hazed memories of the evening they spent together as he tries to find reassuring traction on proof of something more than friendship in his recollection.

Ukai turns back around, his expression clear of any suspicion of the anxious weight of the thoughts in Takeda’s head. “Yeah.” He looks down at the CD, his attention catching on the press of his thumb to the plastic and not Takeda gazing at him. “Well, it’s not like watching this will guarantee we’ll be able to receive Oikawa’s serves tomorrow. But I’d feel pretty anxious if I wasn’t doing _anything_.”

Ukai looks calm. His eyes are shut, his attention clearly given over to the game tomorrow and the CD for tonight; there’s no suggestion anywhere in his expression of the strained, achy burn of jealousy Takeda can feel pinning itself to the thud of his heart in his chest and lancing hotter through every breath he takes. He can feel Mori’s words sticking in the back of his head, can imagine the flush of intoxication across Ukai’s cheeks and knocking his smiles easy and warm for someone else, and somewhere between the ache of desire in his chest and the distraction under Ukai’s casual statement Takeda opens his mouth and finds words spilling out, until he’s blurting, “The next round’s on me, Ukai-kun,” as if it has anything at all to do with the conversation at hand.

Ukai pivots to stare at him, the warm focus of his expression giving way to shock as he blurts, “Seriously?!” as if Takeda has just suggested something far more shocking than bringing over a bottle of sake and sharing it.

Takeda nods, firm in his determination even as his cheeks go warm with self-consciousness. “Yes,” he insists, and Ukai blinks at him, his mouth still open on surprise as Takeda clears his throat. “I really appreciate the effort you put into the team, Ukai-kun.”

It feels like a weak explanation, sounds as absurd in Takeda’s ears as it tastes on his tongue. But Ukai’s expression softens, goes warm and melting into a smile at Takeda’s words, and Takeda finds himself smiling back as the chill edge of jealousy melts to the obvious happiness in Ukai’s face at the idea of spending time with him.

All Takeda really needs is opportunity. He knows how to persist from there.


	36. Amusement

Ukai doesn’t want to know what time it is when he finally turns off the recording of Aoba Johsai’s match. He’s not even sure he’s paying attention to the images flickering in front of him anymore, even with the assistance of three cups of coffee that have kept him going through the repetitions of the match he’s been working through over the span of the evening. His leg is asleep, he realizes when he gets up to stumble to the bathroom, and it’s while he’s washing his hands that he realizes he’s just left the water running and is staring at the rush of the liquid over his fingers with the drowsy interest of exhaustion rather than actually doing anything useful with it. He shuts the tap off, shakes himself back into a modicum of awareness, and by the time he’s back in the bedroom he’s decided it’s time to get some rest. Staying up late watching the video for another loop won’t help him if he doesn’t have the coherency to make any sense of the strategy he’s seeing, and besides in the end it’ll come down to the team, and Kageyama has far more experience seeing Oikawa play than Ukai is likely to gain from a repeated video of a single match.

The darkness is a relief when he shuts the light off. There’s a pressure behind Ukai’s eyes that eases with the shadows, like a headache he didn’t realize was present has lifted pain from his temples, and he groans a breath of appreciation even while he’s still standing by the doorway and waiting for his eyes to adjust enough to let him navigate the floor. It’s only a few steps to the bed, and he takes them in a rush; toppling face-first over the blankets as he used to when he was in high school is tempting, but Ukai’s not sure he’ll be able to make himself move into a more comfortable position if he does that, so he refrains, pausing instead to strip his sweater off over his head and cast it forgotten to the floor before dragging back the weight of the blankets and dropping to sit at the edge of the mattress so he can bring his feet up and under their weight. There’s an ache across his shoulders when he falls back, the daytime strain in his body wearily protesting the sudden surrender to relaxation; it makes Ukai groan in submission to the ache that spreads down his spine and through his body, makes him shut his eyes to the first near-pained relief of being horizontal on the bed. Memories flicker behind his closed lids, images of Oikawa leaping into his serve and the sound of shoes skidding against a volleyball court; and then a voice, clear and brighter than all the others, saying “Ukai-kun” with such a perfect lilt Ukai shudders with the tone and opens his eyes in a rush.

It doesn’t help. His room is dark, the shapes in it so familiar his attention wanders away from them as fast as he reaches for something to hold to; his thoughts are drifting too dizzy to be held, skidding through his mind and demanding the attention he’s too exhausted to deny them. He can’t find the energy for strategy, can’t feel any adrenaline for tomorrow’s game except distantly, as if in a memory or as anticipation for something far in the future; but he can hear Takeda’s voice in his ears, can imagine the slide of the other’s speech dipping over vowels and softening consonants, and all his exhaustion is doing nothing at all to dampen these memories. Ukai clings to the memory of the games, to the motion of the players sweeping through arcs of action; and his mind betrays him, slurs itself sideways to the curve of a smile on Takeda’s lips, to the bright sparkle of excitement in his eyes as the winning point against Dateko hits the floor. Ukai can picture the shape of the other’s shoulders against the dark of his uniform jacket, can recall the curl of one lock of dark hair trapped just inside the collar of the coat; even now his fingers itch with the desire to reach out and tug it free, even now his mind reaches for a justification for the action other than the obvious.

It wouldn’t have been that weird, Ukai thinks, hardly any contact at all; just his hand against Takeda’s shoulder, just a moment of catching his fingers into the soft of the other’s hair. He could have done it in the span of a heartbeat, could have completed the motion before Takeda even turned up to blink surprise at him with eyes gone wide and gold behind the weight of his glasses. Ukai can see it in his head, can imagine the soft curve of surprise turning into a smile at Takeda’s lips; and maybe he wouldn’t have pulled his touch away after all, maybe he would have let it linger just against the weight of Takeda’s collar, or even slid his arm sideways to drape across the line of the other’s shoulders. It’s a stupid idea, he knows rationally, knows that in the moment such contact would have been wildly inappropriate in the setting alone even if not for the lack of any kind of a romantic understanding between them; but in his imagination he can feel how well Takeda would fit under his arm, can imagine the weight of the other’s head pressing against his shoulder and warm against his skin. It would have been such an easy thing, Ukai thinks, to pull Takeda in against him, to close the breathlessly small gap still in existence on the bench; or maybe in the bleachers, after, with Aoba Johsai working through the rhythm of their game on the court below them. Ukai could have leaned back instead of forward as he did, could have stretched his arm out wide across the back of the seat; and then maybe Takeda would have leaned back against the weight, and maybe Ukai could have glanced over to catch the curve of a smile at his lips, and maybe--

“Shit,” Ukai says aloud, and lifts a hand to rub desperately against his face. He’s still heavy with exhaustion, his body and mind together crying out for rest, but the heat in his blood has other ideas, is setting up a low throb of want in the back of his thoughts and at the base of his spine that promises frustration if he continues to ignore it. Ukai could get up, could sit up and push to his feet and stumble into the bathroom for a shower cold enough to strip the flare of heat from his skin and let him fall shivering into the dreamless sleep of true exhaustion. But the idea is painful even to think about, the concept of actually getting back up and out of bed more than Ukai’s depleted willpower can face, and even as he thinks about rolling over and ignoring the heat in his veins his cock aches sharply, promising a struggle for unconsciousness even if he manages to resist temptation long enough to find sleep.

There’s always the possibility of thinking about something else, Ukai tells himself as he pushes the sheets off his waist, as he thumbs the waistband of his pajama pants off his hips and reaches for the comfortable familiarity of a grip around himself. Maybe he’ll think about one of the models on the covers of the magazines they sell at the store, maybe he’ll invent a lover from the whole cloth of his drowsy imagination. It’ll be easy, there’s no reason it has to be...and then his hand slides up, and his imagination reels, and he’s hissing a sharp, sudden inhale at the image of Takeda’s bare shoulders curving in over him. He opens his eyes, stares wide-eyed at the dark instead, but it’s no good; his fantasy has taken the place of reality, the guilty layers of it not enough to undo the simple fact of how easily it comes or how instantly hard Ukai has gone against his palm. He can hear Takeda’s gasping inhales in his ears, can feel the sweat-slick heat of bare skin under his palms, and even when he fists his free hand against the bed to hold himself to reality the friction of his stroking hand becomes the grip of Takeda’s body, the whimper of his breathing modulates into high, choked-off inhales in Takeda’s voice instead of his own.

“God,” Ukai groans, and then he lets his hold on the sheets go, and reaches up to angle his arm over his eyes, because there’s no point, now, in pretending he’s doing anything other than jerking off to the idea of the club advisor he sees on a daily basis. It’s alarming, or it should be, at least, how easily the fantasy forms; it’s like it was waiting for Ukai to reach for it, like he’s been developing it in the back of his head over weeks of practice and evenings of conversations until it falls into his thoughts now perfect in every detail. Ukai knows how Takeda’s lashes lie against his cheeks, can picture the damp part of his lips; he can imagine Takeda to a high flush of heat, can see the angle of the other’s arms flexing to brace against Ukai’s chest as he rocks himself up and back. Ukai can almost feel the strain of Takeda’s thighs open wide to straddle his hips, can almost see the curve of Takeda’s throat as his head tips back to match the arc of his back. Ukai knows what his voice would sound like on a moan, on his name, Takeda’s breath cracking apart against the familiar cadence of “Ukai-kun” in his throat, and his hand is moving faster, his hips are rocking up off the bed to meet the drag of his fingers in reality, to meet the weight of Takeda’s motions in his mind. Ukai’s skin is going hot, his breathing is taking on a desperate edge, and then his imagination offers what he’s never heard in reality, the shape of Takeda’s voice skidding out into a moan over the name “ _Keishin_ ” on his lips. Ukai’s breathing hitches, his spine arches, and then he’s coming, shuddering himself into bone-deep relief as he spills hot against his knuckles. It’s messier than he expected -- he’s pretty sure he caught the edge of his t-shirt without intending to -- but for a long, long moment he can’t muster the energy to care, can’t find the strength to do anything but sprawl loose-limbed across the bed as the clarity of his fantasy eases and fades to the shadowy weight of the night around him. Ukai waits until the heat under his skin has faded, waits until his breathing has untangled itself into the slow pattern of exhaustion instead of the more frantic pace of arousal; and then he finally lifts the arm angled over his eyes and lets himself stare up at the ceiling.

“Well,” he says aloud, tasting the words on his tongue. “I’m fucked.”

It’s not all that funny. As far as humor goes, Ukai feels it’s a fairly basic statement of fact. It’s the exhaustion, he thinks, that makes him smile at the ceiling, that tightens his throat into a self-deprecating chuckle before he rubs his hand over his face and rolls sideways to reach for the box of tissues beside the bed to clean himself up. It only takes a few seconds; then he’s pulling his clothes back into place, and rolling back over in his bed, and shutting his eyes to reality and fantasy alike.

He’s asleep before the amusement has faded.


	37. Uncertain

Takeda can’t sleep.

He’s been trying. By the time he made it home after the match it was well into night, late enough that he should have been feeling the tug of exhaustion and is sure he would have were his veins not still humming with as much adrenaline as blood. It’s hard to calm down, hard to sit still, until he ends up pacing up and down the hallway while dinner cooks and is restless even while he’s eating it, getting up twice to check to make sure his bag for the tournament tomorrow still has everything he needs in it before he can get himself to sit back down for another few minutes. There’s a weight in the back of his thoughts, a worn-out exhaustion that craves rest, but his body is jittery with excitement and it takes two hours and the assistance of a long shower to lose the leading edge of the overexcited stress in him. When the adrenaline finally eases it happens all at once, leaving Takeda heavy and suddenly so tired it’s difficult even to dry his hair from the wet of the shower, and he doesn’t bother putting his glasses back on before he stumbles into bed by feel rather than by sight. He’s sure he’ll collapse as soon as he lies down over the bed, can feel the haze of his thoughts unravelling into the beginnings of dreams every time he blinks, and as he stretches out over the bed he does so in the comfortable assurance of forthcoming sleep. He can page through his recollections of the day -- the satisfaction of the tournament victories, the high-octane excitement still shining bright from the team’s faces once they reconvened in the gym afterwards -- and he’s just breathing a sigh of comfort against his pillow when he remembers shock clear across Ukai’s face, when he hears the startled skid of “Seriously?!” in Ukai’s voice, and everything he was trying to not think about hits him all at once.

He’s still tired. His exhaustion doesn’t ease for the weight of stress that descends upon him; it’s just that the tension that uncurls across his shoulders precludes the possibility of rest, chases back the relaxation necessary to achieve unconsciousness even while the rest of Takeda’s body cries out for sleep. Takeda groans and turns face-down against his pillow, but the pressure of the cover against his face doesn’t stop the too-clear images from earlier in the night. There’s something charming in the memory of Ukai’s shock, something comforting in drawing up the soft of the smiles he’s worn throughout the day, but it’s not enough to counteract the spreading cold of panic that goes through Takeda at remembering the easy rhythm of Ukai’s voice in his offer to Mori. It’s not jealousy that’s tight in Takeda’s chest, not a knot of envy bitter on his tongue; it’s something colder, heavier, dark like fear and tense like panic. It’s something he’s thought about before when it comes to Ukai, something he _had_ to think about in the early days, when he first came through the door of the convenience store and saw the breadth of the shoulders the boy from the photographs had grown into and had heard the weight of Ukai’s rolled-over consonants on the back of his tongue without the interruption of static between his lips and Takeda’s ears. Takeda knows better than to indulge in daydreams without any basis in reality, and all the persistence in the world can’t change someone’s sexuality. But Ukai had smiled, and purred, and stood so close Takeda could brush his sleeve without trying, and Takeda has been certain that at least the potential for interest existed between them. By the time they had stumbled him home from their night of drinking at Ukai’s home with Takeda’s arm around Ukai’s shoulders and Ukai’s hold warm around his waist, Takeda was willing to indulge in the possibility that his own interest might be reciprocated, that he might even let himself go so far as to hope for more, and soon. He’s been referring to the evening as a _date_ in his head ever since, if never when speaking aloud to other people, and if he has spent more than one night reliving the details of the evening while he gasps pleasure against his pillow, well, there never seemed to be much harm in it.

It was too much, Takeda thinks now. Too much to hope for, or at least too much to be certain of. He can’t be sure of the details of his memories now; they are worn too soft with much use, all the sharp edges of clarity rubbed down until he can’t be sure Ukai’s voice really did dip that soft over those words, can’t be sure the flush he recalls spreading across Ukai’s face was self-conscious pleasure and not just the effect of the alcohol in his cup. He can feel doubt like a weight in his stomach, like a sour taste at the back of his throat; the press of the pillow against his face is little comfort, his mental attempt to push the uncertainty away by willpower less so. There’s just the skittering adrenaline of worry running up his spine, sparking bright in the back of his thoughts to chase away the possibility of sleep until even the weight of exhaustion in all Takeda’s limbs isn’t enough to pull him down to rest. He turns his head against the pillow, stares blank at the wall instead, and tries to calm himself, tries to breathe deep and let the rhythm of his inhales ease away the panic straining in the back of his mind.

There’s nothing to worry about, he tells himself. Even in the worst case scenario -- that Ukai’s friendliness has been nothing more than the platonic kindness Takeda first worried it was -- it’s not like anything has really changed in their relationship. There’s nothing lost for the shift away from possibility and into confirmed disinterest; Takeda will still see Ukai on a daily basis, will still have all the pleasure of his company and the sound of his laugh and the bright of his smile during practices, and at tournaments, and in the small infinity of necessary administrative tasks that push them together. Takeda can be happy with that, he thinks, can be content with just friendship to reciprocate his own romantic interest; it’s the only thing he’s been sure of up to this point anyway, he tells himself, that’s all he’s really been able to count on this whole time. There should be no change, nothing really lost by the sudden suspicion that perhaps that’s all there has ever been for Ukai this whole time.

And yet. Takeda’s mind rebels against the statement, fights against the box of _platonic_ that has been hemming in his comfort into the strain of uncertainty all evening. They spent a night drinking together -- alone, that must count for something -- and alcohol or not, Takeda is sure he didn’t imagine how soft and wide Ukai’s eyes were when Takeda looked up with his fingertips still skimming the weight of the other’s earrings. Ukai laughs at Takeda’s terrible jokes, and he smiles when Takeda asks questions, and he’s patient beyond a level easily explained by mere friendship. Maybe he’s just a natural teacher, maybe he just likes the charm of having a willing student -- but maybe it’s more, Takeda’s optimism insists, maybe there’s something to the soft at the corners of his eyes when he looks sideways to meet Takeda’s gaze. Maybe he was as thrilled as Takeda by their proximity at the close of their last -- Takeda’s mind skips, jumping over the dangers implied by the noun _date_ , but the meaning lingers, uncurling warm against his spine and pulling a smile onto his face in spite of his best attempts to stay objective. Maybe he _was_ going to lean in at the end, maybe he was feeling the electricity crackle between them too; or maybe he wanted to keep Takeda in his own apartment, to make use of the excuse of intoxication to let him sleep alongside his futon while the hum of alcohol worked itself free of Takeda’s thoughts. Takeda can imagine it: the smell of smoke, the bite of lavender in the air; he can imagine blinking across the night-dark room to see Ukai lying in bed himself, his hair soft and loose around his face once freed from his headband. Maybe Ukai would have looked at him too, would have turned his head to catch the weight of Takeda’s sleep-hazed stare; and Takeda whimpers and shuts his eyes, turning his face down against his pillow as his blood starts to flare hot with suggestion. He can see it in his mind, can almost taste the smoke lingering in the air, and when he moves it’s to reach for the sheets instead of his hips, to make a fist in the blankets and brace himself steady as he rocks his weight forward in a deliberately slow movement.

Ukai would notice. Takeda knows he would, can’t imagine even the carefully slow tilt of his hips going unseen by the dark attention in those eyes. Maybe his gaze would skip down, would touch against the sheets tangled around Takeda’s waist; and Takeda would move again, like this, with his skin flushing to heat with self-consciousness, with the awareness of Ukai’s eyes on him as he grinds himself against the floor. There’s no attempt to pretend unconsciousness -- Ukai saw his open eyes, saw him looking a moment before he moved -- and there’s no denial Takeda can make of this, nothing to explain his actions as anything other than what he’s doing. But he’s going harder against the sheets under him -- against Ukai’s floor, in his head -- and the lateness of the hour is making him reckless, is softening the edges of what should appall him to stillness. He has time for a shiver of fear, a moment of anticipation running high enough to override even the heat in his veins; and then there’s an imagined touch, a hand reaching out to skim gently against his spine. Takeda groans at the weight, his throat offering up a spill of sound against the pillow under him, and in his imagination Ukai sighs a breath like relief and pushes harder, his hand trailing the curve of Takeda’s back down to his hips. Takeda can imagine the weight of his touch, can almost feel the press of Ukai’s palm holding him down; when he moves it’s a tiny rocking motion, barely an inch of action, the most he can manage under the fantasized weight of Ukai’s hold on him. His cock catches against the front of his clothes, drags against the tangle of the sheets under him, and Takeda gasps against the pillow, the friction sparking up his spine with the suggestion of pleasure but not enough force to achieve anything but desperation. Takeda’s breathing harder, dragging rough against the sheets under his hands; and then his imagination shifts, and offers Ukai reaching for the front of his pants with his free hand, and all Takeda’s awareness of reality flickers and vanishes beneath the vivid immediacy of fantasy.

Ukai’s behind him, the angle of his knees bracketing Takeda’s thigh, a hand spread out to push Takeda down against the sheets, and he’s hard in his hand, with the span of his fingers curled around the flush of his cock. Takeda’s trembling through his whole body, his shoulders shaking with the heat cascading through him, and the sheets beneath him aren’t giving much friction but he doesn’t think it matters, not when he can feel the heat of Ukai’s stare collecting in the dip of his spine where the sheets and his clothes part to bare an inch of skin. He’s aching against the bed, his legs straining to grind him down harder against the sheets as his knees slide wider to lower his weight closer to the resistance, but he doesn’t reach down to give himself the relief of his hand; he lets himself gasp for air instead, feels the effort of unsatisfied want spread and strain all along the vertebrae of his spine. He can almost hear Ukai’s breathing, the low resonance of the other’s voice catching and dragging in his throat as he strokes fast over himself, and Takeda bucks hard against the bed, catches the head of his cock against a seam inside his pants and moans a helpless sound against the pillow under him. He wants more, he’s aching for more, wants Ukai over him and inside him, with the stretch of the other’s cock pushing him open and the angle of his shoulders curving in over Takeda’s shoulders, but Ukai’s breathing harder and Takeda’s trembling and there’s no time, not when Takeda can picture Ukai’s fingers speeding fast over himself and can feel the electricity of anticipation winding taut along his spine. He imagines Ukai’s fingers tensing against his hip, imagines the flutter of Ukai’s lashes shadowing heavy over the dark of his eyes; and then Takeda’s coming with a groan, his cock twitching to spill hot against his pants as his imagination pulls Ukai shuddering into orgasm over him. For a moment the image lingers, Ukai curving forward with heat on his lips as Takeda shudders pleasure against the sheets; and then reality reasserts itself, awareness coming back into its own in the dark of Takeda’s tight-shut eyes, and he gasps an exhale and turns his head to breathe himself back into steadiness. The room is dark, the fantasy is gone; when Takeda shifts there’s nothing holding him down to the bed but the weight of his own exhaustion, and that is easily overcome by the need for clean clothes. He pushes the sheets back on the bed, pushes himself up to stumble to the bathroom; it takes a few minutes to clean himself up, but they pass easily in the haze of half-sleep that’s threatening his alertness. By the time he returns to the bedroom he’s tumbling towards rest faster than his body can keep up, landing more atop the blankets than under them, and if he thinks about shifting to a more comfortable position it’s only for a moment before he turns his head against the soft of the pillow and lets the lure of sleep pull him into unconsciousness.

He might not have an answer, but it’s easy to set that aside when his whole body is humming with the warmth of satisfaction enough for at least this moment.


	38. Assumed

It was the right decision to switch Sugawara in for Kageyama.

Ukai was sure of it when he made the call. It’s hard to explain his reasoning to the set focus behind Kageyama’s eyes or the bright anticipation in Sugawara’s, but as soon as the older boy steps onto the court Ukai knows his decision was the right one for reasons of strategy as much as emotion. Azumane and Sawamura’s shoulders relax right away; even Tanaka goes brighter with excitement, and Nishinoya’s enthusiasm rises even higher in time with Azumane’s ease. The biggest risk was that Kageyama would lock up on the sidelines and freeze himself into bitterness and frustration rather than watching to see the shift of the game, and that entirely fails to happen; when Ukai glances over at him as surreptitiously as he can, Kageyama is watching the game with focus shining in his eyes, his concentration clear and overriding whatever traces of self-consciousness there may be in him.

It’s a good thing too. Seijoh is strong, and what’s more they’re adaptable to a level Ukai wasn’t entirely expecting; they react to Karasuno’s evolution with a speed and grace of such an extent that they seem almost to predict the shifts in the flow of the game before they happen. It’s a beautiful thing to see, or would be if they weren’t opposite the court from the orange-and-black Ukai is focused on; as it is all the elegance of their gameplay is just a barrier, a wall as strong as the one they faced against Dateko. Ukai watches the game with all the focus he can bring to bear on the match, his attention locked on the ebb and flow of tactics and strategy together, and in the end even switching in Sugawara is only a stop-gap. What help he offers to disrupt the flow of the game is rapidly countered by Seijoh, and for what calm the second- and third-years gain Hinata’s energy is dampened by the loss of his usual partner. It’s not a problem initially; even Seijoh has to take a few spikes to catch up to the new rhythm, and Sugawara’s tosses to Hinata are textbook-perfect for all that they lack the uncanny speed of Kageyama’s. But then Hinata takes a spike, and Seijoh catches up to it, and Ukai knows Sugawara’s time on the court for this game is running out.

Kageyama comes over immediately at Ukai’s gesture. Ukai almost expected him to be distracted by the game, but the moment Ukai glances at him Kageyama is jogging towards the bench with his eyes so bright with hope they entirely undo the composure he’s sustaining otherwise.

“You ready to go back in?” Ukai asks, watching Kageyama’s face more closely than he is listening to the answer he gives, a “Yes,” so immediate it anticipates the end of Ukai’s sentence. Takeda is watching them as much as the game -- Ukai can feel the weight of the other’s gaze on him -- but Ukai doesn’t turn to meet the distraction of the other’s eyes.

“You’re back in after this play,” he says instead, holding Kageyama’s stare. The other’s expression doesn’t waver; if there is any change in his reaction it’s in the line of his shoulders, in the tiniest motion of relaxation as hope turns to expectation. “Stay calm. There’s no need to rush with this, remember you’ve got the team at your back.”

“Yes,” Kageyama says, and then he’s jogging back to the sidelines to collect the card for his switch back in. Takeda is still looking at Ukai; watching for a reaction, maybe, or maybe just staring as he sometimes does for no reason at all that Ukai can tell, but Ukai doesn’t turn to return the other’s attention. He keeps watching the court instead, doesn’t look away as the whistle blows to pull Sugawara to the sidelines and exchange experience for genius. Sugawara tips his head in towards Kageyama’s, murmuring something for the other setter to hear as he touches his shoulder; then the referee nods, and Sugawara takes the tag and jogs over to the bench as Kageyama moves forward to stand on the court again.

“Good job,” Shimizu offers from the end of the bench, her voice gentle and careful as it ever is on the words, and Takeda echoes her with a stronger tone: “Great job,” the words bright and warm with sincerity on his lips.

Ukai looks up from the bench to meet Sugawara’s gaze and lets the satisfaction of the moment break across his face in a smile. “You fought on equal ground with Seijoh,” he says, and it’s as much praise as a simple statement of fact.

Sugawara beams, his whole face going soft and warm with pleasure. “Well,” he says, and that’s warm too, pride clear enough under his voice that even demurring words can’t obscure it. “All of our guys are strong.”

Ukai looks past Sugawara to the court, where Kageyama is being joined by the rest of the team, but he’s not really seeing them; it’s the echo of the last few plays he is picturing instead, the practiced grace of Sugawara’s movements during the match only suggesting up the possibility of improvement when Ukai actively looks for it. When he speaks it’s almost unintentional, the words coming more from his own inner monologue than from conscious thought in the moment. “But you know...next time, you can use the center more aggressively.”

Ukai’s still looking at the court when Sugawara moves, dropping into a bow so suddenly he startles backwards on the bench while Sugawara is still exclaiming “Right! Thank you very much!” with a volume and enthusiasm to his words that Ukai’s never heard from him before. Ukai blinks at the other’s bowed head, stunned to silence for a moment, and it’s while he’s still trying to piece together what just happened that Sugawara straightens and jogs back to the sidelines with his cheeks flushed and mouth set on a line of determination like Ukai’s never seen in his expression before.

Ukai stares blankly at Sugawara’s retreating shoulders; when he finally manages a “What?” it’s weak, even the question confused and uncertain in his throat.

“I think the words ‘next time’ meant a lot to Sugawara-kun,” Takeda says from beside him. When Ukai looks down to meet the other’s gaze Takeda is beaming up at him, his mouth curving onto a smile that lights up the color of his eyes and dimples at his cheeks. He looks delighted, as if Ukai’s conversation with Sugawara meant as much to him as to the setter himself, and for just a minute Ukai can feel his heart stutter in his chest, can feel air rush out of his lungs like he’s suddenly forgotten how to breathe. Takeda’s eyes are bright with happiness, his smile is soft against the curve of his lips, and in the gap between one breath and the next Ukai’s attention drops to the other’s mouth and lingers there as his shoulders go tense with the adrenaline of indecision. Takeda is so close, and smiling so warmly, and for just a moment Ukai’s imagination runs wild with possibility, wonders what would happen if he just leaned in over the gap between them to press the weight of a kiss to Takeda’s mouth. Would he smile, maybe, would he make a faint startled sound against Ukai’s lips as his lashes flutter shut? Ukai can almost feel the pressure of Takeda’s reaction humming against his mouth, can almost feel the warmth of Takeda’s lips caught against his; and then there’s the sound of the whistle signalling the start of the match and the spell is broken, and Ukai is back in reality with Takeda smiling at him from across the safe distance of a few feet and without a hint of suspicion behind his eyes.

“Oh,” Ukai says, and then he looks away and back to the court, because Takeda’s smile is a dangerous thing and he has to give himself a moment to catch his breath back from the edge of the mad impulse that gripped him. “I didn’t even think about it.”

“I know,” Takeda says, so softly Ukai almost doesn’t hear him over the roar of enthusiasm from the stands as the serve for the start of the match goes up. “That’s what made it matter more.”

Ukai doesn’t look sideways to meet Takeda’s gaze. It’s more risk than he can trust himself with, especially now, when he needs to keep his mind on the game and not on the shape of Takeda’s smile or the bright of his eyes. But he does smile, a careful curve of his mouth that he doesn’t try to restrain, and in his periphery he can see Takeda duck his head before turning to look back out at the game.

Ukai doesn’t need to turn to know Takeda’s still smiling.


	39. Comfort

Takeda wasn’t expecting them to lose.

He knows Seijoh is good. He has seen the way the other team moves, has been sitting right next to Ukai during the match to see the fluid ease with which their opponents react and adapt to whatever Karasuno throws their way. He’s running hot with adrenaline, his body so tense with excitement it’s impossible to keep in his seat when either side scores a point; but even then he didn’t think about the possibility of losing, didn’t take the time to think past the end of the match and the result of Seijoh making their last point. When the volleyball hits the court it’s with a _thud_ Takeda can feel jolt all down his spine like a shock, can feel hum in the back of his skull and tremor helplessly through his fingertips, and then all the heat drains out of him at once to leave him staring blank shock at the court before them.

That sound -- the smack against the court that marks out their loss -- lingers in his ears, replaying over and over in the back of his mind as he goes mechanically through the usual routine that comes with the end of a match, the exchange of handshakes and the pause while the team thanks the audience that came to watch them. Takeda stays by the bench, feeling the weight of acceptance sink into his limbs like lead taking the place of his blood, and when he looks at Ukai the other is staring at his hands, his shoulders slumped forward into a curve that Takeda’s never seen form along his spine before. He looks smaller, like the breadth of his shoulders has collapsed in on itself; Takeda looks away after only a moment, turning his head up to gaze at the line the team is making before the bleachers, because it’s easier to watch the strained pain in the stiff lines of their backs than to see the defeat clear in the hunch of Ukai’s.

Takeda’s not sure Ukai will get to his feet as the team turns back; but the other man is moving before Takeda can reach out to urge him upright, unfolding from the bench and straightening so smoothly Takeda would almost believe the pained slump of his shoulder never existed at all had he not seen it for himself. Ukai’s expression is calm, his eyes dry, and then the team is collecting around them with none of the energy they showed before, and Takeda is looking out to them instead of watching the absolute calm in Ukai’s face.

Takeda thinks Ukai will speak first. There’s a pause of quiet, a moment of anticipation as everyone comes to a halt; but then it’s Hinata who breaks the silence, his voice trembling in his throat to match the barely-restrained emotion humming along the set of his shoulders. “Um.” The word wobbles, the sound cracking open in his throat; Takeda can hear the frustration in the sound, can hear the effort it costs Hinata to buy himself coherency. “That last block…”

There’s a burst of sound as the gym doors come open, footsteps rattling off the floor to match the shouts of the people who rush in to take their position on the court. Hinata takes a sudden, pained inhale as he turns to look at the interruption, but Ukai’s expression is calm and steady as he considers the new influx of players.

“We need to clear out immediately,” he says, and even his voice is level, perfectly even in his throat as if his hunched shoulders moments before never existed at all, as if the pain of their defeat is being carried by someone else. “The next team’s warm-up is starting.” He looks over the team, making eye contact with the players while Takeda watches him; his mouth doesn’t tremble, his lashes don’t flutter. He’s the picture of calm, the perfect image of composure; Takeda doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ukai look so utterly pulled-together, doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so unlike himself.

“We’ll start our cool down upstairs or outside,” Ukai says, and then, glancing to the far side of the court as something flickers behind his eyes for a moment: “Seijoh will be going to the quarterfinals after a short break.” He looks back over the team before turning towards the gym doors, and the players head for the entrance, their steps slow and shuffling but deliberate enough to indicate their obedience. Takeda stands behind, watching Ukai more than seeing the slump of the player’s shoulders, because their team looks broken and defeated but Ukai looks unreasonably calm, his face is still set in that absolute composure that Takeda has never seen from him before. Takeda doesn’t step forward until Ukai does, following the other man as he moves towards the doors without looking back; with the noise from the bleachers and the sound of the warm-up beginning on the court, Takeda’s footfalls go unheard over the white noise filling the space. The team files through the doors one at a time, the first string players and the bench and Shimizu at the end, her expression composed with only the tension of her lips pressed against each other to speak to her own reaction; and then the door swings shut, Shimizu letting it fall in the absence of Ukai to catch the weight from her, and the two of them are left just inside the door of the gym, with Ukai staring at the doorway and Takeda watching the deliberate set of Ukai’s shoulders. There’s a heartbeat of time, a breath of seconds slipping to silence; and then Takeda steps forward, and reaches out, and Ukai’s shoulders sag under the touch of his fingers like the contact has broken the illusion of calm he’s wrapped around himself.

“Ukai-kun,” Takeda says, too softly to be heard over the roar of sound behind them, but Ukai takes a breath anyway, answering with “Sensei” dragging in the back of his throat until Takeda’s fingers tighten in sympathy for the pain audible in the other’s voice. Ukai’s shoulders curve forward, his head dips down; Takeda can almost see the weight of disappointment settle onto him, like the burden is too much for Ukai to bear now that the audience of the players is gone.

“We played well,” Takeda says, a little more clearly, pitching his voice loud enough that Ukai will be able to hear if he’s listening, if he wants to hear, but soft enough to spare the other man the strain of answering if he doesn’t want to admit to catching the words.

Ukai takes a ragged breath. “I know,” he says, and then he’s lifting a hand to his face, pressing the cover of his palm over his eyes as his breathing strains hard in his throat. Takeda’s chest aches, his forehead creases; but when he moves it’s to take a half-step closer, and when he acts it’s to tighten his fingers into the press of comfort against the other man’s shoulder.

“We’ll win,” Takeda says, his voice clear in his throat and bright enough to carry over the backdrop of sound behind them. There’s no tension on his tongue, no heat threatening behind his eyes; whatever press of disappointment there was on him has gone, as if Ukai’s capitulation to emotion has left Takeda free to be strong for the both of them. “Next time. We will.”

Ukai huffs a sound; it’s a laugh, Takeda thinks, if somewhat muffled by the barrier of his arm and the catch of tears in his throat. “Next time,” he repeats, and then he drops his hand, and lifts his chin, and takes a deep breath of air. Takeda can feel the strength come back into Ukai’s shoulders, can feel the other’s stance steadying under his touch as he sighs an exhale. “That means a lot to me.” His hand comes up, his fingers catch and press over Takeda’s, and for just a moment Ukai’s looking back over his shoulder to smile lopsided at Takeda while the weight of his hand holds the other’s touch against his jacket. “Thanks, sensei.”

Takeda’s smile is wholly unfeigned. “Of course,” he says. “I’m glad to do anything I can to help.”

Ukai laughs, the sound coming easier in his throat as the strain of emotion fades, and he presses harder at Takeda’s hand for a moment before turning back and moving away towards the door of the gym.

Takeda follows with steady shoulders.


	40. Sunshine

It’s easier after they’ve eaten.

Ukai could feel it even in himself. The worst of the disappointment had eased by the time he stepped through the gym doors and off the court that saw their loss to Seijoh, the weight of disappointment on his shoulders mitigated if not completely removed by the warmth of Takeda’s touch and the steady certainty of the other’s words. It’s funny, Ukai thinks, that someone who looks so fragile turns out to be the strongest of them all, when all his own personal experience of high school games lost while he stood on the sidelines screaming enthusiasm didn’t do anything but make this failure the brighter and more painful with the edge of years-old nostalgia under it. But the pressure of unhappiness seems to have pushed aside whatever clumsy facade Takeda sometimes displays, until even Ukai’s most secretive sidelong glances can’t find anything but glowing determination behind the other’s smile. He seems to flourish in adversity, like he’s shining the brighter for the rough edges of their current circumstances, until by the time they are all arrayed around the table at the restaurant Ukai can find the sincerity of a smile for his own expression too, like he’s relearned optimism from the bright eyes of the man kneeling beside him. The meal is quiet but for the sniffling hiccups of the team working through their emotion as much as their hunger, and even as the players disperse Ukai can feel the peace lingering in his own thoughts, leaving him warm and drained and content as he never thought he would be after a loss.

Takeda offers to pay as the last of the team leaves the restaurant to begin their trek back to their respective homes. Ukai’s grateful as much for the bright focus of Takeda’s eyes on him as he is for the suggestion, and his demurral comes easy, like he’s picking up the tab for a date just between the two of them. The thought makes him smile, hold happiness bright in his mind, until even seeing the grand total isn’t enough to rattle him for more than a moment. By the time he and Takeda are stepping through the front door and out into the afternoon sunlight on the main street, Ukai’s forgotten about the money, and has set aside the burden of their loss, and is thinking of nothing at all except the pleasure of walking down the street in the middle of the afternoon with Takeda falling into step alongside him.

It’s Takeda who speaks first, casting the shape of words around the calm contentment Ukai can feel hanging in the air like the sunlight has collected form and weight around itself before landing on their shoulders. “It was a good game,” he says, soft and thoughtful, absent any of the stress Ukai might have expected to hear on his voice. When Ukai looks over Takeda is looking up at the sky, a faint smile caught at his mouth like he’s rewatching some portion of the match in his head and appreciating what he sees. The sunlight catches the gold in his eyes, burnishes it to a bright glow even before he turns to meet Ukai’s gaze, and then he smiles, his mouth curling around happiness so sincere Ukai’s stomach turns over just at the sight of it.

“Yeah,” Ukai says, and he’s returning Takeda’s smile, finding it easy to manage even when he thinks of the game they’ve just lost because Takeda is right, it was a good game, it was a beautiful match, and even if they lost this time they’ll win the next game, Ukai is sure of it. “It was great.”

Takeda’s smile goes wider, dimpling at his cheeks and shining in his eyes, and Ukai has to look away, has to raise his chin and gaze up into the blue of the sky overhead before he does something foolish and reaches out to touch the curl of Takeda’s hair against his ear or leans in to press his mouth to the indentation just at the corner of the other’s lips. His heart is fluttering in his chest, beating out a rhythm of adrenaline completely out-of-keeping with the casual professionalism he’s been trying to hold to, but Ukai doesn’t try to steady his breathing to a calmer pace. He just lets the excitement prickle through him, lets the thrill of the tournament fade to be replaced by this far more personal anticipation, and he finds the exchange to be far less of a loss than he expected.

They don’t speak again for most of the walk. Ukai is languid all through his body, heavy with the cessation of the tournament’s tension and distracted by the vague daydreams winding through his head, and Takeda is quiet beside him, only interrupting the silence between them once to ask, “Isn’t this your turn?” as Ukai keeps walking past a crossroads. But “It’s fine, I’ll walk you home first” is enough to get him another smile, and when Takeda lapses back into quiet Ukai can feel the warmth of slow-spreading affection expanding to fill all the space in his body, like it’s finding extra space from the silent consideration between them.

Ukai wonders what Takeda is thinking about. Is he replaying the game in his head, is he lost in thinking over the smack of the volleyball against the court and the skid of tennis shoes bracing for a jump against the floor? Is he already thinking about the strategy for the next tournament, shifting the core of the team away from the steadfast support of the third years and to the energetic second-years and untested first-years? Or is he as distracted as Ukai by the present moment, is he caught in the same almost-painful happiness of just walking down the street in the sunlight next to someone he cares for? It’s almost too much for Ukai to even let himself think -- his heart skips just on the idea of it -- but that contented silence fills in the gaps for him, giving him a canvas of imagination on which to paint, and for the few minutes it takes to walk to Takeda’s home Ukai lets himself believe that he might see a reflection of his own feelings in Takeda’s bright eyes, if he let himself look for it.

They arrive too soon. Ukai slows his steps as they approach, dragging his feet into nearly half the speed he was at before, and Takeda seems as unwilling to arrive or at least content to match Ukai’s speed. By the time they actually stop in front of Takeda’s gate they’re moving at a crawl, both of them looking farther down the street instead of across to Takeda’s front door. If Ukai had an excuse for them to continue walking farther he would; but the sun is starting to dip lower in the sky, and all the gold-washed warmth filling his veins won’t make him eloquent enough to come up with a suggestion on the spot. He looks to Takeda, turning in with some standard farewell forming on his lips; and Takeda is looking up at him, his hand caught at the bars of the gate but his whole body turned to face Ukai, like his attention is entirely given over to whatever the other man is about to say. Ukai’s _see you tomorrow_ fades on his lips, the possibility of _we played a good game_ disintegrates; he’s left with Takeda’s attention on him, and his lips parted for speech, and words come up from his throat, unstudied and unpracticed and spilling too fast for him to catch them to incoherency.

“The neighborhood association meets up on Saturday nights for drinks together,” he’s saying, and he sounds calm and collected but his heart is pounding in his chest, all the adrenaline left in his body is rushing through his veins in a wave at the sound of the words in his throat. “I usually meet them downtown for the evening, when I’m not working at the store. Do you want to come with me?”

Takeda’s eyebrows jump up, his mouth comes open. “Oh,” he says, a tiny breathless exhale, and Ukai keeps talking, his words starting to trip and stumble over themselves as he continues.

“I understand if you’ve got stuff to do,” he says, and he’s starting to panic, with Takeda’s wide-eyed gaze on him and his lips still parted on that one startled sound. “It’s kind of last minute, I know. We meet every week so if you wanted to come next week, or the week after, that would be fine too. Or if you’re not interested, I totally get it, it’s a lot of people you probably don’t know very well. I won’t be offended or anything if you don’t want to.”

Takeda shakes his head, a brief burst of movement as he lifts a hand to ruffle through his hair and push at the frame of his glasses. “No,” he says, and he’s starting to smile, happiness breaking all across his face as he beams up at Ukai. “I’d love to join you.”

“Oh,” Ukai says, and he feels like gravity has just eased to half its usual strength, like if he jumped he might be able to hang in midair for a few seconds before he came back down. “Okay. Good. That’s great.”

“Yes,” Takeda says, and his smile is going wider, it’s breaking into the beginning of a delighted laugh as he looks up at Ukai. “What time do you usually…?”

“I’ll meet you,” Ukai says, and maybe it’s a little too fast but Takeda dimples at him like it was exactly the right thing to say and he can’t find any stress in him when he feels so light on his feet. “We usually meet at 8 but I can come by around 7:30, if you don’t mind the walk.”

“No,” Takeda says, shaking his head like he’s afraid his words won’t carry the intent alone. “I don’t mind at all. That would be wonderful.”

“Okay,” Ukai says, and he’s smiling and he can’t stop and Takeda is smiling right back at him, they’re beaming at each other like idiots and Ukai doesn’t even care. “Awesome. I’ll see you this weekend.”

“And tomorrow,” Takeda puts in. “At practice.”

“Right,” Ukai says. Takeda is still glowing up at him like Ukai’s the only thing worth looking at in all the world; it makes Ukai feel weightless, makes him feel giddy, like all his blood has been replaced with helium and he doesn’t even mind that it’s suddenly impossible to breathe. “Cool. Yeah.” He takes a step back without looking, just to try to regain some recollection of how to speak and exist like a semi-functional human being, but Takeda just keeps smiling at him, and the distance doesn’t help as much as it might. “Tomorrow.” He lifts a hand, swinging it through the air in a motion that feels as awkward as it should be familiar. “See ya.”

“Yes,” Takeda says, ducking his head into a nod before he lifts his hand to wave as well. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ukai-kun.”

Ukai smiles, and waves again, and then he has to turn away or he’ll never make it home at all. His heart is pounding in his chest, his breathing coming hard in his throat; it’s all he can do to keep his feet on the ground and not give in to the urge to run, or skip, or something similarly overenthusiastic just on the sheer adrenaline roaring through him.

He doesn’t look back before he turns the corner, but it doesn’t matter; he can still feel the warmth of Takeda’s attention on him.


	41. Golden

Takeda can’t stop smiling.

It’s been a fantastic evening. The members of the Neighborhood Association are all friendly, warm and outgoing and more than willing to welcome Takeda into their unofficial evening of drinking without anything more to speak for him than the merit of arriving at the bar in step with Ukai. Ukai had offered perfunctory introductions, waving vaguely at the handful of semi-strangers while rattling off names too fast for Takeda to parse, and then he had paused and said, “And this is Takeda-sensei,” with his voice ringing so clear and bright on the syllables Takeda had been blushing even without the weight of Ukai’s hand pressing against his shoulders as if to hold him steady. The room had dissolved into smiles and shouts of welcome, and Takeda had been happy to smile and wave back with half his attention while all the rest lingered on the warmth of Ukai’s hand resting in the dip between his shoulderblades. Ukai had pulled away eventually -- one of the other association players had offered a drink to him, and Ukai had paused to chat with him a moment while Takeda moved forward to take a seat at the corner of the table -- but he had returned almost as soon as Takeda had settled into place, barely bothering with a “‘Scuze me, sensei” before sitting down so close his knee bumped Takeda’s leg as he settled into place. Takeda had flushed, and smiled, and then he was being pulled three different directions by three different conversations and an offer of a beer, and for the next little while all his attention was occupied by the chatter of the voices around him.

The beer is good, Takeda decides halfway through his second. He doesn’t know what the table is ordering, but there’s a pitcher of carbonated gold in the middle of the table, and everyone’s glasses are refilled intermittently from it, Takeda’s at least as frequently as anyone else’s. Takeda’s thoughts start to go a little hazy after the first hour, his attention too airy-light to land long on any one conversation; he just listens to the rapidfire pace of the conversation of the obviously close friends around him, laughs at the jokes he hears and some he doesn’t, and lets the warm happiness of the setting spread out into all his body like the bubbles fizzing gently through the beer in his condensation-damp glass. He even forgets to be nervous about Ukai so close to him, forgets to feel the weight of Ukai’s knee pressing casually at his leg until there’s a touch at his sleeve, the weight of knuckles bumping against his arm, and “Sensei,” in a low rumble that captures all of Takeda’s attention immediately. He turns away from the rest of the group, his focus centering in on Ukai; and Ukai is staring right at him, his eyes dark with sincerity even if the flush on his cheeks suggests somewhat more intoxication than Takeda himself is experiencing.

“Ukai-kun,” Takeda answers, the habit of coherency ruling his speech even as his heart skips to doubletime in his chest, as his breathing catches against the back of his tongue. Ukai is far closer than Takeda realized he was, or maybe it’s just that he’s leaning in, ducking his head nearer like he has a secret he wants to share with the other man. Takeda imitates him without thinking, his shoulders tipping forward to mirror Ukai’s slouch like they’re forming a wall with their bodies, and when he speaks his voice comes out lower too, pitched to fall to inaudibility under the conversation still flowing around the table as freely as the alcohol. “Is everything alright?”

“Mm,” Ukai says, a hum that Takeda can only assume is meant to indicate the other’s continuing well-being. “Yeah, yeah, ‘m fine.” Ukai ducks forward closer; Takeda can see the curl of his lashes against the color of his eyes, can see the damp of the beer still clinging to his lips. “You having a good time?”

Takeda blinks. The question is so far removed from what he was expecting and the route his own imagination was wandering that it takes him a moment even to make sense of it, and another to form a response. In the pause between Ukai’s forehead creases, his eyebrows drawing together on concern, and he continues: “We can leave, if you’re not enjoying yourself.”

“No,” Takeda says, and then, quickly, before his answer can be misinterpreted: “No, I’m having an excellent time.” There’s another bubble of laughter from the table and he starts to smile even before he’s glanced back to see everyone else dissolving into semi-intoxicated amusement at some unheard joke. “I’m happy for the chance to meet your friends, they seem like wonderful people.”

Ukai’s shoulders ease, some tension in his posture Takeda hadn’t known was there giving way to calm. His mouth curves onto a smile as he looks away and back to his beer, as he reaches out to catch the weight of the damp-chill glass in his hand.

“‘M glad,” he says. “I hoped you’d get along with them. They’re good guys.”

“Yes,” Takeda agrees, but he’s starting to lose the thread of the conversation in the curve of Ukai’s lips on that smile and the dip of his eyelashes in profile when he blinks attention at the mug in front of him. Ukai moves very carefully as he braces his fingers on the glass and lifts it to his mouth; Takeda can see the shape of intoxication in the deliberately smooth motion, the action speaking to the conscious attention required to effectively manage the simple task. And then Ukai shuts his eyes, and tips his head back, and when he swallows Takeda can see the motion all down the line of his throat, can see the gold of the light refracting off the glass to catch against the column of tan skin leading down to the collar of Ukai’s t-shirt. He doesn’t mean to stare but he knows he is, can feel his tipsy attention centering in on the curve of sun-gilded skin and the action along it as Ukai swallows; and then Ukai pulls the glass away from his mouth, and leans forward to set it back on the table, and Takeda blinks and catches himself back into reality with a rush. There’s a burst of sound, conversation sweeping back in to take over his attention as if it had been muted for just a moment, and when Ukai laughs at something someone across the table has said Takeda finally looks away and at the rest of the group. Everyone is in the midst of amusement at something Takeda didn’t hear; most of them are looking at Uchizawa or chuckling into their drinks rather than looking at Takeda himself. For a moment Takeda makes eye contact with Shimada from across the table, the other’s gaze fixing on him with something like curiosity behind his eyes; but then Shimada grins, and looks away, and Takeda is left to smile through the shivering adrenaline of happiness rippling through his veins.

When he looks at Ukai again, the light is still illuminating him to gold.


	42. Self-Conscious

“Thanks for coming out with us,” Ukai offers, some blocks away from the restaurant when the burble of sound behind them has faded to leave just the scuff of he and Takeda’s shoes against the sidewalk. “I’m glad you came.”

“Of course.” Takeda has been watching his feet but he looks up at Ukai’s words, his mouth curving to dimple on a smile for the other man. Ukai doesn’t look at him fully -- he can’t quite trust himself to do so -- but he glances at Takeda sideways, just to see the soft of the other’s smile and the flush darkening across the angle of his cheekbones. “I’m glad you invited me.” He’s still looking up when he catches his toes against the sidewalk and stumbles forward into almost-a-fall before he throws a hand out to catch himself reflexively against Ukai’s arm. Ukai reaches for Takeda’s elbow, his movement involuntary and unthought, but Takeda doesn’t see him, and he draws his hand away as soon as he’s caught his balance so Ukai’s touch misses his sleeve by a hairsbreadth.

“Sorry,” he says, ducking his head to watch the sidewalk and reaching up to adjust his glasses. Ukai lets his hand fall and slides it safely into his pocket instead, but he doesn’t look away from the way the streetlights are inventing gold highlights in Takeda’s hair. “I guess I’m more tipsy than I thought.”

“You were definitely keeping up with everyone else,” Ukai smiles. Takeda looks up at him again, his smile still clinging to his lips, and Ukai can feel affection like a weight inside his chest, a pressure sparking electricity into his veins until he feels like he’s fifteen again and trying to have a coherent conversation with his first crush. “You can hold your alcohol better than I thought you could, sensei.”

“Oh,” Takeda says, and then he laughs, a bright spill of sound that tickles adrenaline along Ukai’s spine like carbonation. “Is that really something to be proud of?”

Ukai shrugs and tips his head to grin at the other. “Nothing to be ashamed of, at least. You’re probably more sober than I am right now.”

Takeda’s smile drags wider at the corner. “Maybe I should be escorting you home instead.”

Ukai chuckles. “Yeah, but I’m the one who invited you out. I gotta make sure my…” He can feel the word twist on his tongue, can feel his gently inebriated thoughts fighting with his rational self for control over his mouth; there’s a noticeable pause before he can shake off the weight of _date_ from his lips and manage a slightly more generic word choice. “...guest gets home safe.”

“I don’t think I’m likely to run into trouble walking home from a restaurant,” Takeda tells him, but he’s still smiling, still has his head tipped up to beam delight at Ukai. “Though I do very much appreciate the company.”

Ukai doesn’t need to be told. He can see it all over Takeda’s face, in the curve of his mouth and the bright of his eyes and the way his whole body is turned in towards him, like Ukai’s existence is of far more interest than the attention he should be paying to the process of walking across the dim-lit sidewalk. It’s still good to hear, though, still purrs warmth under all his skin like his blood is curling hot in his veins, and when he laughs it comes easy, riding the hum of intoxication in him and the press of happiness against the inside of his chest.

They’re quiet for a few minutes after that. Ukai can see Takeda still glancing at him, looking sideways to sneak unsubtle glances at the other’s face, but he doesn’t say anything, and Ukai’s too warm with happiness to find anything not utterly inane to offer. It’s fine as it is, with the pace of their footfalls filling the air and the simple pleasure of Takeda’s presence so close at his elbow that Ukai could reach out and take the other’s hand without stretching, if he took his hand out of his pocket. He doesn’t, doesn’t even shift to free his fingers from the restraint of his clothes, but he thinks about it, his attention wandering along the angle of Takeda’s wrist and against the gentle curl of his fingers as they walk. There’s no tension in his hand at all; Ukai wonders if there would be if he had the nerve to reach out and take it, if he skimmed his fingertips against the inside of Takeda’s wrist and down to fit into the open angle of his fingers. He can imagine the startled sound Takeda would make, the way he’d look down as if to verify for himself what Ukai was doing, and then...well. There’s the possibility of him pulling his hand free, a slim chance but one too much still for Ukai to take the risk, especially with his thoughts hazy enough on alcohol that he can’t trust his own judgment. But for a minute Ukai lets himself imagine, lets himself picture the way Takeda might smile, the way he might duck his head and let the dark of the light and the angle of their bodies serve as cover while Ukai laced their fingers together. The idea of it is sweet in his thoughts, enough to draw a smile to his face without him thinking about it at all, and then Takeda speaks and Ukai has to blink hard to force himself back to the present.

“Huh?” He shakes his head. “Sorry, what?”

“Sorry,” Takeda says needlessly. “I was just wondering how often you all get together. You said you meet weekly?”

“Yeah,” Ukai says. “Most weeks, anyway. Sometimes too many of us are busy, but usually it’s a set thing.” He looks down the street again, trying to keep his attention on the subject at hand instead of on the way Takeda is gazing up at him. “Might be hard for you to make it every week, I know.”

“Oh!” Takeda says, so startled and breathless that Ukai has to look at him again just to see the soft part of his lips and the wide bright of his eyes. “No, I’d love to, as long as I wouldn’t be intruding.”

Ukai’s grin comes easily, riding the prickle of delight along his spine as much as the warmth of intoxication in his veins. “Nope. If anything I think you were better company than I was.”

“You’re flattering me,” Takeda smiles up at him. “I’m just touched to find everyone so welcoming.”

“Of course,” Ukai says, and doesn’t say the rest of it: _who couldn’t love you?_ because he’s tipsy, and he knows he’s tipsy, and even though the words seem like innocent sincerity in his head he’s sure they’ll carry a weight he ought to be sober before he attempts to convey. It’s true -- it’s not the accuracy of the words that he doubts -- but he wants them to _feel_ true when he says them, wants Takeda to hear what he means without any doubt about the implication under them. Besides, he has time; it’s not like they have anything to rush towards, not with the shared glow of unspoken understanding humming in the air between them. The idea makes him smile, curling happiness into the corner of his mouth, and Takeda ducks his head and aims his smile down at his feet as he watches where he’s going instead of looking up to gaze attention at Ukai.

The walk is too short. Ukai finds himself regretting the distance as they draw into sight of Takeda’s front gate, as the darkened windows of the other’s house form themselves to clarity against the dim haze of the night. They both stop at the gate, Takeda’s steps stilling as they approach, and Ukai’s heart is pounding and his hands are trembling but Takeda is looking back at him, tipping his head up and smiling warm and innocent at the other man.

“Thank you,” he says again, his smile going wider to dimple against his cheek. “I’m looking forward to next week already.”

“Yeah?” Ukai says, and he’s smiling, he can’t hold it back, can’t get a handle on the warmth tight in his chest. “Next week then, it’s a date.”

He speaks without thinking. The words are simple, they tumble off his lips with the same casual disregard he would use with one of his friends from the Association. But Takeda’s eyes go faintly wider, and his mouth softens into a part of surprise, and Ukai’s whole body prickles suddenly hot with self-consciousness.

“I--” he starts, and then closes his mouth hard, before he can blurt the lie of _I didn’t mean it like that_. “Yeah,” he tries again, and Takeda is still staring at him and Ukai can feel his cheeks going warmer, can feel his whole expression going tense on rising embarrassment. “I should get home.”

Takeda blinks and shakes his head like he’s coming out of a trance. “Ah,” he says. “It is quite late.”

“Yeah,” Ukai says, and takes a step backward before his mouth runs away with him again, before he can say or do something to give himself more away than he already has. “I’ll see you later, sensei.”

“Yes.” Takeda’s mouth catches its smile again, his eyes flicker warm behind his glasses; even at a distance Ukai can see the crinkle of happiness that sets at the corners of his eyes. “Goodnight, Ukai-kun.”

“‘Night,” Ukai says, and then he turns, and strides away down the street before he decides where he’s going. It’s not the right way, as it turns out -- he ends up three blocks farther away from his own home before he notices -- but he doesn’t correct even when he realizes his mistake, just keeps walking with the aimless distraction that seems to grip him whenever he spends the evening with Takeda. There’s too much in his mind to process, the bright burble of Takeda’s laughter and the warmth of his knee against Ukai’s leg and the sudden curve of his smile, and above all the shadow Ukai thought he saw just as he turned, the self-conscious blush spreading across the other’s face to match the color in Ukai’s own cheeks.

He’s still crimson with embarrassment by the time he finally turns back to start making his way back home. But he hasn’t stopped smiling either, and the one seems like a fair trade for the other.


	43. Cohesive

Takeda can’t sleep.

He didn’t expect he’d be able to. The alcohol in his veins is enough to make his steps a little clumsier than usual, enough to send his thoughts swirling a little more hazily than they typically do; but he’s been jittery on adrenaline the whole night, and by the time Ukai was walking him the too-short distance to his home he had accepted that any reasonable amount of sleep was out of the question tonight, alcohol or no. There’s just too much tension along his spine, in his throat, dragging the warmth of a smile onto his face even when he tries to fight it back, until by the time he’s showered and changed and is under the sheets in bed his face is aching from the tension of the smile he’s been wearing for the last several hours. It’s just too much to take in, too much to process, and even when he turns the light off and can hide in the privacy of the dark from the uncaring view of his furniture it’s all he can do to press both hands to his face and smile helplessly against his fingers.

It _was_ a date. That’s the first thing, the most obvious thing, that even without an official word put to it the entire evening had the structure and form and tone of a date. That’s enough to spike Takeda’s heartrate fluttering hard at his pulse all by itself; but then there’s the actual confirmation, the rich purr of Ukai’s voice on his last _it’s a date_ that Takeda can feel like electricity under his skin even in memory. It pulls his smile wider than it was, urges delight spiking into frantic adrenaline inside his chest until he has to turn over in bed, has to press his face to the pillow to hold back the spill of near-hysterical delight that wants to push against his vocal chords. It’s too much to hope for, too much to take in; there’s the details of memory from tonight, and the hazy hope for the future, and above all the ecstatic, unbearable weight of happiness shining bright and crystalline in Takeda’s thoughts.

 _I should have kissed him_. It’s a stray thought, a flickering regret, almost not worth even considering. There was no chance tonight, or at least none that would allow rational restraint to give way to the indulgence of such physical contact. But Takeda’s heart is pounding, his breathing is rushing fast in his chest, and he still wishes he had had the chance, wishes he had been reckless enough to step in over the so-small gap between them at the gate and rise up onto his toes to catch the corner of Ukai’s smile with his lips. It would have been unforgivable if they had been caught -- the lateness of the hour doesn’t guarantee a lack of an unexpected audience, and the main street is a far cry from the almost-privacy Takeda can assume on his front step -- but just at the moment Takeda thinks it would have been worth it for that friction at his lips, for the way Ukai would have smiled, for the possibility that he would have leaned in closer and pressed for more. Takeda could have drawn him inside, maybe, could have offered tea and conversation with the fit of Ukai’s mouth lingering against his lips to turn his speech glowing with suggestion, and maybe Ukai would have accepted, maybe they would be kneeling in Takeda’s living room right now with the bright illumination of the overhead light to catch gold against the strands of Ukai’s hair. Takeda doesn’t think he would have been able to keep his hands away, if Ukai had come in with him, doesn’t think his restraint would have held out with no audience and the warm reality of Ukai here, in his home, surrounded by the trappings of his everyday life; but maybe it’s for the best, after all, that he didn’t come in, that Takeda didn’t kiss him at the gate as his racing heart regrets not doing. It would have been too fast, too sudden, too abrupt to even seem real, even if Takeda’s body is flushing warm just imagining the things he could be doing right now if Ukai had followed him inside; and there’s no rush, no need to force speed to their relationship. It’s not as if Takeda can’t see Ukai tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that too, not as if his future isn’t a series of bright points in his imagination marking out the moments he can spend smiling up at the other man’s face. They will have tomorrow, and next week, and the week after that, and eventually -- and Takeda smiles with the thought, feels his whole body tingling warm at the idea -- Takeda will invite Ukai in for tea some night after drinking, and he’ll shut the door behind them, and they’ll have the privacy to indulge in whatever they want without the need to worry about being seen by scandalized passers-by.

It’s a good thought. It makes Takeda smile, finally undoes the rush of adrenaline in his chest enough that he can turn his head and sigh himself into calm joy as he blinks at the wall of his room with vision indistinct on the darkness and hazy in the absence of his glasses. There’s nothing to worry about, and there’s no need for panicky speed; next weekend is a date, and tonight was too, and all the warmth behind Ukai’s eyes is _real_ and not just an invention of Takeda’s overactive imagination. The thought makes his smile drag wider again, pulls a hum of delighted laughter up his throat, and then Takeda shuts his eyes to the present, and lets his attention wander into revisiting the gold-lit memories of the past and inventing hazy daydreams for the future.

With the promise of Ukai’s words to knit them together, there’s no distinction worth making between the two.


	44. Endearing

The team is more enthusiastic than Ukai had been worried they would be. He remembers the weight of losses from his own years on the volleyball team, can remember the way the end of a tournament always felt like an unshakeable burden for days, like a cloud had descended upon the gym to hang dark about the heads of all the players to slow their steps and dull their shouts. He doesn’t know what makes the difference for this group; maybe it’s Hinata and Nishinoya, maybe it’s that their energy is too overwhelming to be dampened for more than a few hours by retrospective unhappiness. Maybe it’s something the rest of them did independently, some personal process that let them work through the loss themselves; maybe it’s just that the third years have all elected to stay, that their confirmed commitment to the team through the end of the year has pulled everyone together to look forward to the future instead of lingering in the past. Ukai doesn’t know what makes the difference; all he knows is that it’s there, that far from being borne down by the pressure of their recent loss the team seems inspired by it, that all their efforts have doubled until Ukai has to tell them to _stop_ practicing instead of encouraging them to it.

He hardly minds. It’s a good problem to have as a coach, and he’d far rather have too much enthusiasm than too little. Besides, it warms him too, suits the bright glow of happiness that he has been carrying with him since the weekend, and even if the reasons for his mood are somewhat different than the team’s, they’re compatible all the same. In the end he caves when the team pleads for more practice, lets them play set after set of matches against each other until finally after some half-dozen rounds all but Hinata and Kageyama have subsided to catch their breath and rehydrate around the fringes of the gym. Ukai leaves the two first years to their continued practice -- there’s no point in trying to restrain the duo’s enthusiasm for volleyball, he learned some time ago -- while he considers the rest of the team arrayed around the gym. They’re all radiant with potential, each of them starting to shine with his own particular strengths and abilities, but that’s not enough alone; Ukai knows better than anyone that individual skill isn’t enough to bring a group together to make a team.

It’s practice matches that they need. They had one before he joined, the game against Aoba Johsai that he’s only heard about secondhand from Takeda’s recollection of it, and he has a good sense of how that went as much from their recent tournament loss as from the other man’s memory. Playing against the neighborhood association was a great opportunity, but Ukai already knows how hard it is to get the team together even late in the evenings after work, and collecting them regularly during the time the Karasuno team is dedicated to practice is going to be so challenging as to be impossible. What the team really needs is regular practice matches, on a daily basis if possible, just to give them the experience of playing together against a true opponent. Splitting into two teams as they are now is a decent stopgap measure, but in the long term it’s not going to be enough for what they need, and Ukai knows it. He’s frowning thoughtfully at the court, lost somewhere in the daze of his own wandering thoughts; and then the gym doors fly open in a rush of sunlight and motion, and a familiar voice gasps a startled exclamation, and Ukai turns just as Takeda trips over the lip of the door and falls flat on his face on the floor.

There’s a chorus of shouts from the team, concern and amusement in equal parts as the players move forward to collect around the door, but Ukai’s nearest, is standing close enough to blink concern down at Takeda as he asks, “You okay?” while the rest of the team falls into a semi-circle behind him. He’s ready for a flinch of pain, maybe for tears if Takeda is badly hurt; but the other sits up in a rush, as breathless in this movement as he was coming through the doors, and manages “W-we’re going, right?” with no apparent concern for the way his nose is trickling blood down towards his lips.

“Where?” Hinata wants to know, and “Your nose is bleeding!” Kageyama puts in, but Takeda doesn’t appear any more fazed by this than he was by his fall. He lifts a hand to push his glasses up his nose, his mouth setting into determination as he lifts a crumpled sheet of paper to gesture at them.

“Tokyo!”

There’s a jolt that runs through the team; Ukai can feel them draw back in the first confused shock. But he doesn’t look back at them, doesn’t look away from Takeda’s face as the other beams up at the players from his position in the doorway; his heart is starting to beat harder, his chest is swelling with the tentative beginnings of happiness, because the team might not know what Tokyo means but Ukai knows, Ukai has the extra context of late-night conversations during the walk back to Takeda’s house and he knows what Takeda must have done, knows what new impossible thing Takeda has managed to achieve even if he can’t imagine _how_.

“Tokyo?” Hinata asks from the front of the group. Takeda nods immediate affirmative, and Hinata says again “Tokyo?” with a little more conviction as realization starts to set in. “You mean...Nekoma?!” It’s delight on his tongue, almost a chirp of excitement in his throat; Ukai doesn’t have to turn around to see the flushed happiness all over his face when he can hear it in the pitch of Hinata’s voice.

It’s Kageyama who puts more coherent words to it, slowly, as if he’s working through the implications as fast as he’s saying the words. “A practice match?”

Takeda gets to his feet, finally lifting a hand to wipe at the blood on his face. “Yeah! But it won’t just be Nekoma this time, but the Fukurodani Academy Group.” Ukai reaches into his pocket and fishes out a packet of tissues to offer to the other man; Takeda looks up to him and flashes a smile bright as sunshine as he accepts the packet and pulls one free to wipe at his face. “It’s a group of schools from the Kanto region that includes Nekoma. Apparently they hold practice matches all the time.” He’s got most of the blood off his face now; when he offers the tissue packet back Ukai waves him away with a smile. Takeda dimples unspoken appreciation at him before looking back to the team to continue speaking. “This time, because of Coach Nekomata, Karasuno will also be able to participate in their practice matches.”

The team offers an ‘ooh’ of excitement, Tanaka and Nishinoya especially enthusiastically. Takeda seems happy enough to leave it at that; but Ukai clears his throat and reaches up to ruffle a hand through his hair as the team turns to look at him.

“Groups like that are created through relationships built up over years, so it’s not easy to get in without connections.” He lets his hand fall and folds his arms over his chest as he looks over at Takeda to meet the other’s beaming smile. “We’ve got to make sure to thank Coach Nekomata.” And back out, aiming his words at the players instead of at Takeda at his side close enough to touch: “And Sensei, too, who I’m sure kept persistently asking him” before glancing back to see the way Takeda’s eyes go wide behind his glasses, the way his whole expression falls into apologetic rejection of the credit.

“No,” he insists, lifting his hands in an attempt to wave aside the statement, and Ukai can feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, can feel affection swelling to fill all the space inside his ribcage with warmth. “I didn’t really…” and he trails off, his movement stilling as he looks to Ukai and catches the other watching him. His mouth catches on a smile, his cheeks dimple with the expression, and for just a moment his eyes are soft in that way they get when he’s really touched by something, like the color of them has gone bright and glowing with gold from the inside out. “Your name helped a lot, Coach Ukai.”

It’s not meant for the team. The setting gives it that impression, Ukai knows, and from the way the team shouts their thanks in mismatched stereo it passes for such for the half-attention the players are giving them. But Takeda jumps at the sound, his focus startled away to land once more on the team, and Ukai knows who that smile was for, knows what was dominating the other’s attention for that moment the same as he knows where his own focus was. It makes him smile even before Takeda’s expression goes soft, even before the bright excitement behind his eyes eases into the gentle pride that he always offers to the team, and when he turns out to speak to the players Ukai keeps looking at him for long seconds, letting his attention wander across the part of Takeda’s lips and the faint suggestion of blood from his bruised nose where the color hasn’t been entirely wiped away by the press of the tissue. It ought to be a distraction from the excitement of Takeda’s expression, ought to detract from the level calm of his voice as he explains the opportunity the team is getting; but all Ukai can feel is the pleasant ache weighting his chest with every inhale, the pressure digging in hard against his lungs until it’s hard to take a full inhale for the shape of the affection knotting the back of his throat and glowing in him with each breath.

It ought to be ridiculous: Takeda’s clumsiness, his overenthusiasm, his complete disregard for his own bloody nose in favor of telling the team about the confirmed trip. Ukai is aware it’s probably indicative of his own hopelessness that he’s finding it more endearing than anything else; but looking at the sunlight catching highlights into Takeda’s dark hair and the angle of his glasses on his nose as he pushes them up one-handed, he can’t find it in him to mind even a little.


	45. Worry

Takeda is worried.

It’s strange to remember he has things to worry about at all, honestly. With his afternoons given over to sitting in on the team’s practices and his weekends characterized by the ever-increasing ease of drinking with the Neighborhood Association, he would expect the only thing he ever has to worry about is when he’ll have the time to get grading done for the essays and homework he collects from his students. But unfortunately his recent hope for his personal life, however flourishing it may be, isn’t enough to resolve the mundane issues of club finances. It’s not enough to detract from Takeda’s sincere pleasure in spending the evenings with Ukai, or from his constant anticipation of the next free weekend, but it’s hard to forget when the team’s enthusiasm for the upcoming trip is rising and every excited comment from Hinata only serves to remind Takeda of the looming problem hanging over him. He’s been thinking about it all evening, distracted even from the usual pleasure of watching the team fall into better and better alignment with each other, until even after the players have filtered out to return to their respective homes he’s caught in his own thoughts rather than looking forward to the now-habitual routine of Ukai walking him over the distance from the school to his home.

It’s Ukai speaking that jars him out of it, the other’s voice enough to make it past even the haze of distraction within which Takeda has mired himself. “What’s wrong, sensei?” He’s reaching for a waterbottle near the door, pushing a hand through his hair as he bends to pick up the weight of the bottle; Takeda can see the dark of sweat dampening the locks near the roots, easing the yellow-bleached strands into the dark of his natural hair color. “Why the serious face?”

“Ah,” Takeda says, and Ukai is straightening, lifting his hand to take a long swallow from the waterbottle without looking away from him. From the side his lashes look longer than usual, like they’re framing his eyes to a shadow Takeda doesn’t usually see in them. “Well. Apparently the bus we were supposed to take for the away games in Tokyo was booked by another club, so it doesn’t look like we’ll get it.” Ukai pauses his motion, lowering the bottle from his mouth as he turns to look at Takeda directly; his eyes are dark with focus but Takeda doesn’t look at them long, too distracted by his present concern even to be pulled aside by the full force of Ukai’s attention on him. He ducks his head instead, frowning at the floor under Ukai’s shoes as he admits, “It looks like it’s going to cost us a lot more than expected, so I was trying to figure out what to do.”

Ukai sighs. “Ah.” Takeda can hear resignation on his voice, can see him turn to gaze out at the empty gym. “I’ll try talking to a few more alumni.” He doesn’t sound hugely hopeful, but there’s less weight on his voice than Takeda had feared, and the steadiness of his tone is reassuring all on its own even before Takeda looks back up to see the calm gaze Ukai is giving him. “I’m sure this problem’ll come up again in the future.”

Takeda sighs and ducks his head, sketching the shape of gratitude into a bow as Ukai turns to move back towards the gym doors. “I apologize,” he says, feeling the words heavy with sincerity on his tongue. “I’ll try reaching out, as well.” Memory flickers, offering a last-resort option, and when Takeda straightens it’s with a little of the strain across his shoulders easing, even if Ukai is still looking away. “Well, if all else fails, I do have some savings.”

Ukai looks back at once. “No, no, no,” he insists, and he’s pacing back across the gym, granting his words more weight as he approaches and waves a hand to sweep aside this possibility. “You need to save that for your future wedding or something.” He makes a face, half a grimace and half a laugh as he reaches out to push at Takeda’s uplifted hand. “And don’t do that with your hand!”

Takeda lets his hand fall. Ukai’s touch is warm against his skin but there’s chill percolating out from his spine, ice unwinding into his veins with a horrible premonition, and even the pleasure of the other’s touch isn’t enough to overcome the sudden cold of suspicion. “Right,” he says, his words falling so distant they feel more like an echo in his ears than anything else. “Well. If we need it.”

“We’ll find another way,” Ukai tells him, sweeping aside all of Takeda’s financial concerns with an easy gesture. “I’ll call some people. I’ve been leaving you to this on your own; if we’re both working on it I’m sure we can figure something out.”

“Of course,” Takeda says. His ears are still ringing with that one word in Ukai’s throat, _wedding_ and the implications it carries, and his throat is knotting on sudden, uncontrollable emotion. “I’ll make some more calls.” He looks to the door, to the shadows on the other side, to the dark of the night to cover the tension he can feel straining all across his shoulders, and for the first time he has a strong urge to be on the other side of the gym, away from the light illuminating his expression and away from Ukai’s company.

“Sensei?” There’s worry on the word, the purr of concern under Ukai’s voice even before a hand lands at Takeda’s shoulder and fingers tighten to brace him steady. “You okay? You look real pale.”

Takeda looks up. He shouldn’t -- he doesn’t know what kind of expression is on his face, doesn’t know what he might be accidentally saying with the look in his eyes right now -- but he can’t help it, not when Ukai is leaning in towards him like he is. There’s tension across the other’s forehead, a frown of worry at his lips, and no suspicion anywhere in his face, no trace of self-consciousness under his expression. It would be a relief in other circumstances; now, with all Takeda’s own beliefs about Ukai’s understanding and interest unravelling in his head, it’s just painful to see.

“I’m fine,” Takeda says automatically, and then, in immediate reversal: “Actually I’m a bit worn out. I must have not slept well last night.” He ducks his head and reaches to push his glasses up his nose for the excuse of hiding behind his hand. “My apologies, but can I leave you to close up?”

“‘Course,” Ukai says, still frowning down at Takeda. “I can walk you home and come back after, if you’d like the company.”

On any other night Takeda would smile at the implication in the words, would lift his head and beam agreement up at Ukai even before he found the voice for acceptance. But his heart is pounding so hard he feels dizzy with it, and for the first time in his life he wants to be alone more than he wants anyone’s company, even Ukai Keishin’s.

“No,” he says, and he steps forward, towards the door and away from Ukai’s touch at his shoulder. “I don’t want to inconvenience you, I’ll be fine to see myself home.”

“Are you sure?” Ukai takes a step to follow, his voice audibly straining on uncertainty, and Takeda has to look back, he can’t help himself, not when Ukai sounds so concerned. Ukai’s standing still, his forehead creasing deeper on worry as he watches Takeda; there’s so much concern in his face that Takeda’s heart aches with it, that all the affection in him goes painfully hot just at seeing the way Ukai is looking at him. “You really don’t look well.”

Takeda shakes his head. When he takes a breath it’s a bracing one, a lungful of air to steady his shoulders and pull a smile onto his face. It’s weaker than he intends it to be, it feels fragile and strained as soon as it forms, but Ukai’s shoulders ease a little upon seeing it, and Takeda can feel the expression gaining strength the longer he maintains it.

“I’m fine,” he says, and he almost sounds like he means it. “You closing up for me is a help in itself, Ukai-kun, I really appreciate it.”

“Sure,” Ukai says. He still looks worried, is still staring at Takeda like he’s trying to see past the forced weight of his smile, but Takeda looks away from the other’s gaze and keeps talking to forestall any additional concern Ukai might put words to.

“I’ll go home and get some rest,” he says as he pushes the door open to let the light of the gym spill out into the night outside. “I’m sure I’ll be back to normal in the morning.”

“Hope so,” Ukai agrees, coming forward to catch the door and hold it as Takeda steps through. “It’s alright if you have to take some time off. I can hold everything together for a couple days if you’re feeling overworked.”

Takeda waves his hand without turning around. “No, no, I’ll be fine.” He takes a breath and feels the nighttime cool of it fill his lungs before he looks back to lift a hand in a wave to Ukai standing framed in the light of the gym door. “Thank you again, Ukai-kun. Goodnight.”

“Night,” Ukai says, and Takeda turns away before he can give in to the temptation to stay, to draw their conversation longer, to take the other up on his offer of company after all. He wants it too much, wants the reassurance of Ukai’s presence at his side to chase away the shadows of sudden panic that have hit him; but that would be dodging the problem, that would be ignoring reality for the sake of his own daydreams, and he can’t let himself do that no matter how much he might want to. So he turns away, and walks towards the front gates, and by the time he’s made it to the main street his steps are reflexive, his movement falling into habit so long-ingrained he doesn’t have to think about it at all to get himself home.

It’s for the best. His attention is all elsewhere anyway, on the bright of Ukai’s hair and the rumble of his voice and the curve of his grin but on his words too, the easy implication of _your future wedding_ like it’s an obvious assumption, like the fact of Takeda getting married someday is such a stunningly simple fact that it doesn’t bear discussion. It’s always strange to have others make reference to the possibility that Takeda entirely gave up on years before, when he realized his interest in men so vastly outweighed his friendliness towards women that he was never going to be able to even make an attempt at the more typical romantic relationship marriage requires. It’s jarring to hear the assumption on the lips of strangers; coming from Ukai it’s devastating, it undoes months of assumption that Takeda has been carrying with him secure in the belief that his preferences were abundantly clear to the other man. But if Ukai isn’t certain on that point...Takeda’s memories tumble over themselves, the warm recollection of pleasant intoxication and more pleasant company rewriting itself with every step he takes towards home. It seems impossible that he has been overstepping, seems unfathomable that he could be so wrong; but perhaps he has, perhaps he is, perhaps Ukai has never intended anything but friendship all this time. Takeda can’t think clearly, can’t organize his memories; has he seen Ukai tease anyone else? Does Ukai flirt with all his acquaintances the way he flirts with Takeda? It’s hard to recall, hard even to call up the memories when everything Takeda remembers is cast with the warm golden glow of happiness too incandescent to allow for clarity; but that means he can’t be sure, he can’t find anything to absolutely confirm the other’s interest. There’s dozens of suggestions, hints, flirtations half-formed and fully stated both, but now there’s doubt there too, creeping in to drag the warm out of Takeda’s veins like a chill until by the time he gets home he’s shivering in spite of the summertime heat clinging to the air.

He takes a shower as soon as he gets home, leaving his shoes and jacket by the front door and retreating to attempt the help of warm water in chasing away the spreading panic running through his body. The heat undoes some of the knots in his shoulders and soothes his body to physical comfort in spite of the ache of exertion all through his limbs; but his mind refuses to calm, his thoughts refuse to still. They follow him through the methodical process of making and eating dinner, hover over him while he sorts through the latest student essays and makes plans to grade them over the weekend, and even when Takeda finally settles himself into the comfort of his bed the relaxation isn’t enough to shake their force. It takes him almost an hour to fall asleep, and even then it’s restless, his awareness drifting in and out of consciousness while his mind repeats memory after memory after memory in search of some kind of absolute confirmation of interest, of understanding, of intention.

If he thought he was worried before, it’s nothing compared to this.


	46. Misstep

The gym feels empty without Takeda there.

It’s a strange thing, that one person could make all the difference in Ukai’s perception. The gym is enormous, more than too big for just two people; but Takeda fills up spaces when he’s in them, the bright of his smile and the ease of his laugh expanding until Ukai hardly notices if anyone else is in a room so long as Takeda’s there too. But without him the gym is silent, the space echoing loud with every scuff of Ukai’s shoes against the floor, and there’s not much cleanup to do but the minutes feel like hours, every moment that passes dragging long and sticky in Ukai’s awareness until he’s surprised to find it’s only been a half hour since Takeda left by the time he has the gym clear. He can hear each individual footfall of his shoes against the court as he walks towards the door, can feel the emptiness of the space bearing down on him as if it has a physical weight, and when he shuts the light off and steps outside he does so without looking back to the dark interior.

It’s better outside. The lingering heat of summer in the air is fading with the darkness, the edge of uncomfortable warmth flickering and gone to promise a pleasant walk home; Ukai just wishes he had company for it, someone to talk to at the least and Takeda at best, with his usual radiant attention to turn the dim of the night midday bright to Ukai’s eyes. But Takeda’s not here, he’s long since at home; Ukai thinks about texting him, or calling him, just to make sure he made it back without incident, but that seems needlessly pushy, and besides Takeda might already be asleep, if he decided to catch up on the rest he was apparently in such need of. So Ukai leaves his phone in his pocket, and leaves his hands at his sides, and starts making his way back to his home with his attention more in his head than on the pavement in front of him.

It’s Takeda he’s thinking of, as it so frequently is; but the memories are fretful, now, turning themselves over from affection into worry as he walks, until he’s frowning at the sidewalk without thinking of it. He’s never seen Takeda look so unhappy. Usually there’s a perpetual smile at the other’s mouth, or at least the possibility of it clinging to the curve of his lips; Takeda stands up straight, and tips his chin up like he’s always looking to the sky, like he might take a step and just lift right off the ground on the force of his energy. But when he left today his shoulders were hunched, his smile absent; even when he made an attempt at one it was a weak thing, a product of effort more than sincerity. Ukai’s heart constricts just thinking about it, just remembering the shadows dimming the bright of Takeda’s eyes as he looked at him, and his shoulders are hunching now, too, bringing him in to lean over his feet without paying any attention to the familiar route they’re following.

It must be the lack of funding, Ukai decides, must be the stress about transportation to Tokyo that has so undone the other, and there’s a knot of guilt forming inside his chest, the weight of uncomfortable responsibility bearing down on his shoulders as he considers it. It’s not fair that he’s been leaving all this to Takeda to take on; this is the first Ukai has heard about the financial burden of the trip, certainly, but now that he thinks about it he hasn’t been making any plans for the camp at all. The last training camp they did was all Takeda’s planning too; Ukai had shown up as a participant more than as a leader, had benefitted from Takeda’s work without even knowing how much went into it. He should have been doing more, he realizes, should have been taking initiative himself instead of letting Takeda bear the burden, and he really is hunching now, his whole body is tipping forward as he frowns hard at the sidewalk. It’s not right for Takeda to feel like he has to do everything himself; the fact that he has even considered using his personal savings for the trip hurts something in Ukai’s chest, aches pressure against his lungs until it’s hard to catch his breath for the weight of it. He admires Takeda’s dedication to the team with the same warm happiness that he always feels for Takeda’s enthusiasm towards volleyball, but the team shouldn’t be his whole life, not when he has better things to do with his future.

_Like get married?_

It’s a stray thought, as offhand and unformed as it was during their conversation, when Ukai had reached for a rebuttal and snatched at the first he came across. But what came and went in the distraction of their earlier conversation carries a weight with it now that stops Ukai’s footsteps dead on the sidewalk, that leaves him staring blankly at the pavement in front of him while his heart skids out on stress in his chest.

He hasn’t really thought about it before. There were some brief consideration given to the possibility, back when all Ukai knew of Takeda was the vibrant sound of his voice over the phone and the persistence with which he kept up his nightly phone calls. After finding out there was no wife or girlfriend to cast guilt over his rapidly-forming crush, Ukai had forgotten about the question in the first place, and recent events have given him no cause at all to bring it back up. But it’s returned now, rising from the back of his mind like a shadow dimming all his thoughts, and for a moment it’s difficult even to breathe for the mental image. Ukai can see it clearly: Takeda in a suit, his hair as rumpled as it ever is and his glasses as outsized, his smile irrepressible and glowing all over his face. Probably he’d have trouble with his flower, would need someone else’s help to pin it on and even then would knock it loose with a too-enthusiastic gesture. He would be bright, and warm, and glowing, Ukai can see it in his head, can see the radiant beauty of pure happiness on Takeda’s face as he reaches out to take the hands of some sweet-faced woman, someone pretty and loving and perfect and not Ukai, someone Takeda could make a life and a home with without any of the endless complications that would come with a relationship between two men. It hurts to imagine, hurts to consider; Ukai flinches from the image but it lingers still, flickering and shifting but with all the important parts the same: Takeda happy, Takeda smiling, Takeda blissfully content without Ukai at his side. It’s not even jealousy in Ukai’s chest -- there’s no name for the hypothetical woman, he knows Takeda well enough to know that the possibility of such doesn’t even exist, as yet -- but pain instead, guilt catching against his thoughts to say maybe he’s not the best thing for Takeda, that maybe Takeda would be happier looking for a wife, and a family, and all the trappings of a traditional life that Ukai has only recently come to terms with abandoning for himself.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , he tries to tell himself, lifting his head and blinking hard at the shadowy shapes of his surroundings. _If he wants_ you _then it doesn’t matter_. But the question is there, now, the alternative offering itself to Ukai’s imagination even if Takeda has remained utterly silent on the subject, and Ukai’s confidence is trembling with every beat of his heart, his certainty in Takeda’s reciprocation of his interest wavering and threatening to collapse entirely with too much consideration. He has to move, he has to walk before the shadows of his own thoughts envelop him completely; and then he takes a step, and blinks at his surroundings, and realizes that his feet have taken him past his turning and towards Takeda’s home instead of following the route to his own.

“Fuck,” he says aloud, the word falling heavy against uncaring pavement, and then he turns on his heel to return the way he came, to backtrack over his own steps towards his own home instead of the destination to which his unconscious mind directed him. He keeps his attention on his feet, this time, tracking the change of his surroundings and taking the most direct route back to his house with dogged focus to prevent a repetition of his first unthinking mistake, and within a few minutes he has undone the error of his feet and placed himself back on the path towards home.

He wishes he could undo the slip in his thoughts as easily. Getting himself home is an easy thing; clearing his mind of the shiver of uncertainty that has caught him proves far, far more difficult, the uncomfortable panic of it persisting through a shower and a late-night meal before bed. Finally Ukai down two cups of sake in rapid succession, and gets himself into bed as the intoxication slurs his focus into exhausted haze, and by the time the effect of the alcohol has worn off he has fallen into sleep to carry him through the night.

His dreams, at least, are easy.


	47. Stress

The training camp is a resounding success for the team. They play practice matches back-to-back all day, gaining speed and skill and coordination every time Takeda sees them. For the purposes of what the camp was intended to achieve, it’s a major victory and more: the team gains the experience Takeda knows they need, and Takeda gains the interaction with the other coaches that will give him a basis for requests for practice games in the future. By all rights, by all logic, Takeda should be as happy as the appearance he offers, should have a smile ready for anyone at any time, regardless of the setting; even the financial concerns of transportation were neatly resolved, thanks to the unexpected help of their new first-year manager Yachi. And Takeda _is_ happy, he’s grateful for the opportunity and thrilled by the team’s progress and excited to have the chance to form friendships of his own to draw on instead of relying on Nekomata’s sway with the rest of the Fukurodani Group.

There’s just one thing missing. It’s a little thing, a silly detail; Takeda feels foolish every time he thinks of it, every time he realizes this minor disappointment is lingering over the sincere happiness he should be feeling all the time. But he is disappointed, and helpless to the feeling, because Ukai is busy, as busy as the rest of the coaches are with handling their teams, so busy that Takeda hardly gets the chance to say five words to him over the course of the day. In another situation, at another time, this would be hardly worth noting; Ukai was often busy during practices back at Karasuno the same as he is now, often has commitments he needs to meet and responsibilities to uphold that keep Takeda from more than a few quick interactions for the span of whole days. But now Takeda has that ache of doubt in the back of his thoughts, can feel the press of stress against the inside of his ribcage with every breath he takes, and it’s making him desperate, making him long for the casual reassurance of Ukai’s smile or the brush of Ukai’s touch at his arm. It wouldn’t take much, he thinks -- just a handful of minutes alone together, enough time for Takeda to comfort himself that Ukai is still interested, that the warm glow behind his eyes is still there as it has been all this time -- but either Ukai is truly overbusy, or Takeda needs more reassurance than he thought, because as the days slide past it’s stress that winds tighter in him instead of relief, it’s anxiety that starts to spike through his body instead of excitement when he sees Ukai.

The evenings should be a reprieve. The coaches and advisors collect on a nightly basis, courtesy of Nekomata’s impossible-to-refuse enthusiasm, and between the haze of laughter and the humming warmth that comes with intoxication Takeda ought to be able to find a moment to catch Ukai into conversation, to win for himself the sincere smile that he thinks would be enough to undo the panic twisting tighter in his chest with every day that goes by. But Nekomata demands attention with casual extraversion of a level Takeda has never seen before, and between fielding conversations with whomever he ends up sitting next to (and it’s not Ukai, it’s never Ukai, no matter how hard Takeda makes the attempt) and laughing at Nekomata’s steady descent into intoxication and off-color jokes, Takeda loses opportunity after opportunity. The first night Ukai is gone when he looks around, having left sometime while Takeda was distracted or tipsy enough to not notice; the second night Takeda sees him leaving, and tries to urge him back, but Nekomata sweeps in to boom a laugh about how Keishin can’t hold his liquor as well as his grandfather, and all Takeda can do is flinch apology for inadvertently drawing attention to the other man. The third night Ukai stays for the whole evening -- Takeda rather suspects this is in direct rebuttal to Nekomata’s laughter the night before -- but he ends up on the far side of the table from Takeda, and every time Takeda tries to catch the other’s eye Ukai’s looking at Naoi next to him and is apparently too engrossed by the conversation to glance up at Takeda watching him. By the fourth night Takeda has given up entirely on his hope of managing any real conversation with the other man, until he hardly thinks of it at all in the haze of conversation that catches and sweeps over him to span the hours of drinking. He’s deep in the midst of a discussion with Fukurodani’s coach about the town in which he grew up when Nekomata’s cackle breaks over the conversations and draws everyone’s attention around to the older man.

“Like I said,” he’s saying, leaning in to the advisor sitting next to him as if there’s any need at all for proximity to hear him clearly. “Keishin’s got nothing on his granddad. Ikkei could drink me under the table anytime he put his mind to it.” Takeda looks across the table, his attention tracking the subject of Nekomata’s statement to where Ukai is stirring from a drowse against the wall, blinking hard as if trying to clear his vision from the alcohol-induced daze he’s fallen into.

Nekomata laughs again, the sound spilling loud from his throat, but Takeda doesn’t look back at him; his focus clings to Ukai as if held by magnetism, his intoxicated attention catching to hyper-awareness of all the details of the other’s presence. The cuff of his jacket is turned over on itself, the fabric catching against his arm as he lifts his hand to ruffle through his hair while he yawns hugely; the dark of the elastic that usually holds his hair off his face is sliding back, too, freeing a lock of blond hair to catch at his fingers and fall over the dark of his eyebrows. He looks exhausted, stress creasing in his forehead and clinging to his mouth like the precursor to a frown, and he looks beautiful, half-awake and rough with sleep and flushed so warm Takeda wishes he were close enough to reach out and touch his fingers to the line of the other’s wrist, or fit his hand into Ukai’s hair, or lean in near and breathe in the smell of lavender from the rumpled line of his jacket. Nekomata is speaking, offering some teasing comment that brings the rest of the room into laughter; but Takeda doesn’t hear it, is too distracted by the details of Ukai on the far side of the table to listen to the sound of the others speaking. He’s caught still, as frozen as if in a trance, and then Ukai turns his head to catch his gaze for the first time all night. For a moment they stare at each other, Takeda caught too off-guard to even think to close his mouth on the stunned-warm glow radiating through him and Ukai blinking sleep from his eyes; and then Ukai huffs, the laugh visible in the quirk of his lips if too quiet to be heard from across the room, and flashes a grin at Takeda for a moment before he looks back to whatever Nekomata is saying about him.

It’s not enough to undo the knot of worry in Takeda’s chest, not enough to lift the weight of stress bearing down on his shoulders like it’s trying to crush him into the ground. He knows in a few minutes the fizz of happiness will dissipate and he’ll be back where he started, anxious and aching for a moment of Ukai’s attention to land on him again. But right now his chest is swelling with delight, and right now he’s ducking his head to smile helplessly into his cup, and right now he feels like he would be willing to wait a whole week over again to have Ukai smile at him like that once more.


	48. Indulgence

Ukai keeps himself busy during the training camp. It’s a self-preservation technique more than anything else; with the team as occupied as they are by practice matches, he could probably indulge in a few minutes of flirtation as he usually does back at Karasuno without anyone being the wiser. But there’s enough to do to hold his attention if he looks for it, enough for him to stay busy from the first few minutes of waking to the wee hours of the morning if he makes the effort, and so he does, filling his time with coordinating matches and watching practice and catching up with Naoi instead of hovering at Takeda’s shoulder as he usually does. It seems safer, with the other teams around them to notice or comment on their relationship, and Ukai definitely doesn’t want to deal with Nekomata’s teasing when he hasn’t yet made up his mind on what he wants to do with regards to the other man. What had seemed so simple before has gone tangled and difficult with the effect of his own doubts; by the time the week is half over Ukai has talked himself entirely out of his previous conviction of Takeda’s interest, has worked himself back around to the familiar uncertainty that he carried for so many weeks. He can convince himself that Takeda’s smile for him is as friendly as the one he offers to anyone else, can watch Takeda sitting close to the other coaches and advisors in the impromptu drinking parties in the evenings and tell himself it’s nothing in particular about him that draws the other’s attention. It hurts to think about, is painful to tell himself; but there’s a security to it, too, it gives a familiar distance to his own interest if he can tell himself there’s no chance of reciprocation. He’s not sure he believes it -- there are still too many shadows behind Takeda’s eyes when Ukai meets his gaze, still too many moments when Ukai looks up to see Takeda staring at him with his mouth soft and expression warm -- but it seems safer than the alternative, seems better to pull back on the headlong rush of the hope he’s been nurturing and aim for some kind of measured rationality insead.

It’s harder to do than Ukai expects. Even with the distraction of the team’s endless practice matches and the ready conversation of the other coaches to hold his attention, Ukai rarely goes more than a span of five minutes without glancing at Takeda, just to check where he is in the room. He’s always aware of the other’s presence, can pick his voice out of the crowd without trying, without even being certain he _wants_ to, and that’s more alarming than anything else, realizing only with the backdrop of other possible company how utterly attuned he is to the other man. Takeda is always on his mind, always holding his attention, until finally it’s easier to just not look at him at all, to attempt to ignore his presence so all Ukai has to deal with is his own head, just the warm-hazed memories and too-clear fantasies bleeding over into each other until he can hardly keep track of which is which without active effort.

It’s exhausting. The days would be long enough just with the practice matches; with Nekomata’s insistence on nightly drinking parties as well, it’s all Ukai can do to hold himself together over the span of the week. By the time the last evening comes he can feel the strain of the effort all the way down to his bones, can feel the ache of desire and doubt and too-often-repeated mental arguments like a physical weight on his shoulders, and he’s decided to refuse Nekomata’s suggestion of another party before it comes, regardless of the older man’s insistence on teasing him for bowing out. Ukai wants a cigarette, and he wants a moment of peace, a span of time to catch his breath and let the tension in his shoulders unknot for just long enough for him to draw a deep breath and feel like he has a handle on his life again. He leaves dinner early for that purpose, letting Karasuno continue chattering with their newfound friends on the other teams while he retreats to the quiet of the hallways and towards the box of cigarettes he has stowed in his bag. He hasn’t had a moment to smoke for the last several days -- the players are around during the day, and he keeps forgetting to grab his cigarettes before getting drawn into Nekomata’s gatherings -- and even the thought of the relief the nicotine will offer is enough to make his shoulders sag, enough to strip away the worst of his tension just in expectation of the simple pleasure to come. He makes his way down the hallway and towards the bedroom he shares with the other visiting coaches, and then he opens the door, and Takeda looks up at him, and Ukai goes utterly still in the entrance.

There’s a moment of quiet. It feels long, in Ukai’s head, like the pause is stretching to encompass the days of almost complete silence between them at the camp, and the evenings before that of excuses to walk home alone, and the tumbling wave of insecurities and uncertainties Ukai has been carrying in his head like a constant chorus over his thoughts. Takeda is just as still as Ukai is, his eyes wide like he’s shocked to see the other man here and his lips slightly parted on surprise; his hair is curling across his forehead, his polo shirt falling open over the line of his collarbones as he kneels alongside his own bag a few spaces down from where Ukai set his, the distance a necessity for Ukai’s own peace of mind and ability to sleep through the night. Takeda looks startled, and soft, and sweet, and for just a moment Ukai’s fingers tighten on the door with the desire to reach out, to step forward across the empty space between them and sink his fingers into the soft of Takeda’s dark hair so he can draw the other’s mouth in against his. The door is open, they could be interrupted at any time; but still Ukai wants it, wants the contact so badly he can feel it trembling in his fingertips where they’re braced against the door.

Takeda closes his mouth and blinks hard. “Ukai-kun,” he says, and it’s then Ukai realizes that he’s staring, that he’s been frozen still in the doorway gazing at Takeda with his expression knocked wide-open on the aching want under his skin. “I thought you were still at dinner.”

“Ah,” Ukai says coherently, and shakes his head in as much of an attempt to steady himself as to offer a response. “No, they’re still eating. I think everyone’s on their third helpings by now.”

Takeda smiles. “They’ve more than earned it.”

Ukai clears his throat and reaches for some subject of conversation. “Are you going back out to meet Nekomata?”

“Hm?” Takeda blinks hard before shaking his head in echo of Ukai. His hair ruffles with the motion. “No, we’re not drinking tonight. I thought I’d get into the baths early so I can be out of the way when the players are ready for them after dinner.”

“Ah,” Ukai says, and his mind is wandering helpless to his intentions to the contrary, offering the shift of Takeda’s bare shoulders through a veil of steam, suggesting the bright of his eyes absent the weight of his glasses, murmuring daydreams of bare skin and warm air that start to go hazy and unfocused as Ukai’s heart speeds in his chest.

Takeda takes a breath. “If you’d like--”

“I just came by for my cigarettes,” Ukai says in a rush, cutting off Takeda’s statement before he can make it through what Ukai knows will be an offer to join him and before Ukai has to pit self-restraint against temptation in a match he’s not sure restraint will win. “Thought I’d sneak a smoke while everyone else was busy.”

Takeda’s lashes flutter, his expression going blank with surprise again; then he laughs, sudden and bright and startling, the glow of the expression catching into his eyes from the dimpling pleasure at his mouth. “You sound like a high schooler yourself when you phrase it like that, Ukai-kun.”

Ukai grins back, helpless to the responsive delight that catches him whenever Takeda smiles like that. “Yeah, well.” He lets the door go and steps forward into the room, finally managing to look away from Takeda as he approaches his bag set against the wall. “Guess all this time with them is rubbing off on me.”

“You’ve been an enormous help to them over the past few days,” Takeda says from where he’s kneeling a few feet away. “Even I can tell their technique has become far more polished since we arrived.”

“That ain’t my doing,” Ukai says, still smiling so the words come out warm in spite of the disagreement under the statement. “That’s all the work they’re been putting into those practice matches.” His bag is overfull, stuffed with the shirts he’s worn over the last few days and the manga he intended to flip through in the free time that has proven nonexistent; it’s hard enough to reach to the bottom of his bag, and even then he can’t find the familiar shape of the cardboard box of cigarettes he’s looking for. He frowns concentration, staring unseeing at the wall as he fumbles against the bottom of the bag in search of it. “They’ve been putting in as much effort as I could hope, there’s hardly anything for me to do except keep an eye on them.”

“I think your presence is a positive influence in and of itself,” Takeda says, his voice falling into the familiar gentle tone that sounds compliant but that Ukai knows has all the give of a brick wall. Ukai smiles disagreement but doesn’t bother putting words to a rebuttal; he’s still rummaging through his bag, looking down now to frown at the tangle of clothes crammed in over everything beneath them.

Takeda takes a breath, loud enough that Ukai can hear it without thinking about the sound. “You’re looking for your cigarettes?”

“Yeah.” Ukai drags at one of the shirts, trying to leverage the tangle up so he can peer into the bottom of the bag. “I know I packed them but now I can’t find them.”

“They’re not there,” Takeda says, and there’s the shuffle of movement, and Ukai is just startling back when Takeda kneels alongside him and reaches out for the far side of the bag. “I saw them when we arrived, you put them--” and he’s drawing the box free from the mesh side pocket where Ukai stored them a week earlier while packing, setting them aside so they wouldn’t get crushed by the rest of his things. Ukai can remember the logic of his actions now, if he thinks about it; but now Takeda’s right next to him, turning to offer the box as he reaches up to adjust his glasses needlessly, and Ukai isn’t thinking about the cigarettes at all anymore. He’s thinking about the curve of Takeda’s shoulder, the angle of his fingers bracing against the box, the soft dark of his lashes behind his glasses when he looks up to smile at the other, and Ukai’s heart is stuttering in his chest, all his body going hot as if Takeda’s attention is embodied sunlight glowing radiant against his skin.

“Ah,” Ukai says, and reaches out reflexively to take the cigarettes from Takeda’s hold. He’s not looking at them; he’s looking at Takeda instead, looking at the curve of his lips around the simple pleasure of his smile and the curve of his nose and the handful of freckles caught across the bridge of his nose and just over his cheekbones. “Thanks.”

Takeda blinks at him, his eyes going softer and his mouth dipping out of the tension of his smile. He’s very close, Ukai thinks to realize; they’re closer than they’ve been since the first day here, when Ukai established the deliberate distance he’s managed to maintain since then. This close Ukai can see the individual curls in Takeda’s hair, can hear the sound of the other’s breathing in the space between them; if he inhales he can catch a hint of aloe on his tongue, the cool clean of it clinging to Takeda’s hair from whatever shampoo it is he uses. Takeda’s mouth is completely slack, now, his lashes dipping heavy over the bright of his eyes as he stares at Ukai; and Ukai takes a breath, and leans back, and pushes to his feet in a rush born as much from desperation as conscious thought.

“I’ll find a quiet spot to smoke,” he says as he turns away towards the still-open door and the implicit threat of interruption, blinking his attention back into focus on rationality, and reason, and all the logical details of why he shouldn’t push Takeda’s narrow shoulders back against the wall and press his lips to the shadow of every one of those freckles on his face. “Hope you have a nice bath, sensei.”

“Yes,” Takeda says, sounding a little dazed, but Ukai doesn’t look back to see the confusion in his eyes or the lingering softness at his mouth. “Thank you, Ukai-kun.”

“Yeah,” Ukai says, and then he’s leaving, stepping out of the room and into the hallway and moving away without looking back, without giving in to the temptation to take a last lingering glance at Takeda staring wide-eyed at him from the floor alongside his bag. It’s for the best, he tells himself, better that he cling to the frail shell of distance he’s managed to establish, better that he save himself from having to resist the temptation that Takeda unwittingly offers by the part of his lips and the purr of his voice and the pale dip of his collarbones against the collar of his shirt. He tells himself that all the way outside, until he’s found a shadowed corner around one of the gyms and settled himself against the wall to light a cigarette; then he takes an inhale, and tastes nicotine on his tongue, and when he leans his head back and shuts his eyes it’s Takeda he sees, the image bright and warm and so clear that he knows that last desperate resistance was useless, that his attempt to dodge temptation was exactly as ineffective as it always has been with Takeda. It doesn’t matter whether he looks or doesn’t look, whether he gives in or turns away; Takeda’s in his head, now, settled so deep in his thoughts he might as well be printed on the back of Ukai’s eyelids to follow him into sleep and fantasy both. Ukai takes a breath of smoke, and breathes it out into the air, and doesn’t open his eyes.

Just for a moment, he’ll indulge himself.


	49. Unrest

The drive back is almost entirely silent.

Takeda volunteered to take the first shift of driving. He’s better rested, he thinks, especially with how abstracted Ukai has looked over the last few days, and in the event the other man needs to catch a few hours of sleep Takeda is sure he can take care of the van and its passengers while Ukai naps. But Ukai doesn’t settle himself into the comfortable slouch of sleep as they get onto the road, doesn’t relax even as the rest of the passengers subside into boneless slumps against the backs of the seats or leaning on each other; every time Takeda glances over at him Ukai is sitting up straight and gazing out the passenger side window with his hand supporting his chin. Takeda can’t imagine what he’s thinking about with such all-consuming focus; whatever it is is straining across his shoulders and tensing at the line of his jaw until Takeda hesitates to interrupt the other’s reflection. He drives for nearly an hour like that, sneaking unseen glances at the wall of Ukai’s shoulders with nothing but the soft hum of the sleeping team’s breathing to fill the silence; and then finally the tension is too tight, and Takeda is too anxious, and he speaks into the quiet between them, dropping words like stones into a glassy lake.

“I think the camp was a success,” he says, aiming the words at Ukai’s shoulders. There’s a moment of hesitation, a pause where Takeda thinks for the span of a heartbeat Ukai won’t respond even to this direct statement; but then Ukai shifts, and shakes his head out of his distraction, and starts to turn back before Takeda pulls his attention away to look back out at the dark road illuminated by the van’s headlights. His heart is pounding pointlessly fast in his chest, as if this is the first conversation he’s ever had with Ukai, or as if the subject is far more loaded with meaning than it is in actuality. “The team seemed to improve quite a bit.”

“Mm,” Ukai hums, and for a moment Takeda is afraid that will be all the response he’s going to get. But then Ukai stirs, and shifts in his seat, and says, “Yeah,” with a little more energy, like he’s forcing himself into a better response. “They really needed the chance to play against a lot of other teams, it was good to bring them together and give them that experience.”

“Thank you for your help,” Takeda says, and he knows he sounds a little bit desperate but he can’t let the minimal thread of conversation go now that he’s attained it. “You were so busy, it must have been exhausting.”

“No busier than you were,” Ukai demurs, as if he hasn’t been so occupied with everything going on around them that Takeda has barely spoken to him all week. “It’s worth it to support the team, right?”

“Yes,” Takeda agrees. “I’m glad to do whatever I can to help.”

“Yeah.” There’s another pause, the sound of Ukai taking a breath into the silence; then: “Sorry I’m not better company for you.” When Takeda looks over Ukai’s looking out the passenger window again, his head turned away so Takeda can’t see his expression; the angle of his head makes his words echo oddly off the glass, sends them back cool and dark and stripped of any emotional tells they might have had originally. “If you’re tired I can take over driving instead.”

Takeda stares at the pale of Ukai’s hair for a moment. His heart is aching in his chest, his throat knotting up over dozens of unsaid words: _what did I do_ , _how do I fix this,_ _what happened_ , things he would say if only he could be sure Ukai felt the same way, if only he could be certain Ukai was even aware of the weird distance that has managed to build itself between them over the span of the last few days. It seems obvious to Takeda, as clear as if there’s a pane of glass filling the space between their bodies, as if everything he says or does is filtered through the translucent medium to come out as cool and calm as the reflection of Ukai’s voice. But maybe it’s just his own self-consciousness that is telling him something is wrong, that is telling him he did something to deconstruct the slow-blooming romance between them; maybe there was nothing there at all, maybe the warmth in Ukai’s voice and the suggestion behind his eyes are all constructions of Takeda’s imagination as much as the purring seduction of the Ukai of his fantasies is. It’s not true -- Takeda knows he didn’t imagine _all_ of it, he couldn’t have -- but even his certainty in that fact is flickering with each day that passes, with each moment of clear-edged reality that so counteracts his own impression of the relationship they had for a few too-brief weeks.

“Sensei?”

Takeda blinks and shakes his head to pull himself back to the present. Ukai is looking at him, now, his attention finally drawn away from the dark of the road on the other side of the car window; the lighting in the can is too dim to pick out the details of his expression, or the color of his eyes, or anything except for the fact that he’s looking at Takeda, waiting on an answer to the question Takeda has misplaced in his own thoughts.

“Oh,” Takeda says, and looks away from Ukai’s face, looks back out at the road in front of him as he pulls himself out of his own thoughts and back to the present, as he reaches through recent memory to find the dropped thread of conversation. “No, it’s fine, I don’t mind driving. It gives me something to focus on.”

“Sure,” Ukai says. “Let me know when you want to trade.”

“I will,” Takeda says, and then he reaches out for the volume button on the radio, self-conscious awkwardness winning out over the anxious need for resolution pressing against his chest. “Would you like to pick something to listen to?”

Takeda doesn’t listen to the music Ukai chooses at all; even the interest it holds as being something Ukai likes pales in comparison to the weight of his thoughts and the press of stress weighting over his shoulders. He stares out at the road sliding under the glow of the van’s headlights, and loops through the playlist of his favorite memories, and even long after Ukai finally tips against the side of the van in surrender to sleep Takeda doesn’t pull over so they can switch.

He has more than enough on his mind to keep him awake.


	50. Hesitation

Ukai doesn’t wake until they’re nearly back to the high school. He drifted off somewhere during the drive back from Tokyo, sliding into hazy dreams formed around the rhythm of the songs on the turned-down radio and the thought of Takeda close enough to touch, if he only had the nerve to reach out and do it. But he doesn’t, and he knows he doesn’t, so he naps instead, closing his eyes and letting the stress of the present moment dissolve into a drowse he expects to be woken from by the sound of the other man’s voice. But his dreams spiral on and on, time slipping past as unnoticed as the miles they travel, and it’s only as the van slows as they come into the narrower streets of the city that Ukai stirs enough to come to full consciousness.

“Sorry,” he manages, as soon as he’s alert enough to be sure he’s not mistaking their surroundings for something other than the familiar streets they are. “I didn’t mean to make you drive the whole way yourself.”

Takeda lifts a hand by a few inches, just enough to wave off Ukai’s apology. “It was no trouble,” he says, even though his voice sounds rougher than Ukai’s ever heard it before and his eyes are heavy with bruised-in exhaustion under the dark of his lashes. “You were asleep and I was thinking about other things, it seemed easier to continue on as we began.”

“Sure,” Ukai agrees, but he keeps an eye on Takeda anyway, making the most of his brief revival of energy to ensure they don’t have an upset over the last few miles back to the high school. They don’t -- Takeda is conscientious about his driving, careful with the deliberate focus that comes with self-aware exhaustion -- and they’re pulling in at the front of the school just as the team starts to murmur and shift themselves back into consciousness.

It’s a slow process to unload everyone. Sugawara and Ennoshita wake up quickly and seem wholly alert by the time they make it around to help Shimizu sort out the bags loaded into the back of the van, but Nishinoya’s energy is dimmed to a sort of delirious mumble, and Azumane has to be all but dragged bodily out of the back of the van before he awakes. Kageyama moves of his own accord but then stays where he is placed, blinking hazily at the motion of those around him until Ukai puts his bag into his hands directly, and Hinata looks faintly green at the tight corners of his mouth, like his stomach has only just caught up with the ramifications of sleeping in a moving vehicle. It takes some time to get everyone sorted out, and for Hinata to sit down long enough to collect himself, and by the time the team has disbanded in pursuit of their respective beds any energy Ukai gained from his nap is as entirely absent as if it had never existed in the first place.

“Does the van need to go back tonight?” he asks as he closes the door to the back of the vehicle and comes around to test that the side door is securely locked. Takeda is standing a few feet away from the van, staring blankly at the side; he looks stalled out, like he’s entirely forgotten what he was doing, his whole body slumping forward as if it’s too much effort to hold himself up. Ukai pauses, his hand still at the door of the van. “Sensei?”

“Mm?” Takeda lifts his chin, shaking his head hard like he’s attempting to shed his exhaustion via physical effort. “Ah. Yes. The van can be returned in the morning. I anticipated we wouldn’t be back until late and there was no difficulty with keeping it overnight.”

“Got it,” Ukai says. “Guess that’s it, then.”

Takeda blinks and looks at the empty space around them with visible effort to keep his attention in focus. “Yes.” He touches his hip, feeling out his pocket and what Ukai assumes is the weight of the keys there, reaches up to adjust his glasses over the exhaustion behind his eyes, and finally lifts his head to look up to Ukai and offer him a tired smile and the duck of his head in a nod. “Goodnight, Ukai-kun.”

“Yeah,” Ukai says. “Night.” He stays where he is, watching Takeda turn away and start to pace towards the sidewalk that will take him home, to the path that Ukai knows as clearly as he knows the route to his own house, and there’s a knot in his chest, a pressure he can’t shake until he opens his mouth and calls, “I could walk you back, if you want the company.”

Takeda turns immediately, pivoting on his heel and looking back over his shoulder at Ukai. There’s a streetlight a little ways down from him; the backlit illumination washes all the detail out of his expression, until all Ukai can see is the dark of his hair and the frames of his glasses outlining the pale of his face. Then Takeda laughs, a soft spill of sound that sounds more tired than amused, and when he smiles Ukai can see the effort it costs him, can see the exhaustion lying heavy under the reaction.

“Thank you,” he says, but his voice is so carefully level Ukai can hear the follow-up rejection before it comes. “I believe I’ll be fine.”

“You look tired,” Ukai says, not sure if he’s trying to persuade or just putting voice to his concern. “You did make the drive all on your own, I wouldn’t mind seeing you home.”

“Thank you,” Takeda says again, this time with a duck of his head that is even more a rejection than the hand he lifts to wave away the offer. “You must be tired as well and ready to get home yourself. I’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Alright,” Ukai says, because Takeda’s voice is taking on the weight of stubbornness like he’s digging in his heels, and because Ukai doesn’t know what else to say, and if he’s any more honest he’ll blurt out far more than just friendly concern for the other’s well-being. “Right. Good night.”

“Good night,” Takeda says once more, and he turns, and then he’s gone, moving through the alternate shadows and illumination of the streetlights with a pace slow with the same exhaustion Ukai can see weighting across his shoulders. Ukai stays where he is by the van, watching Takeda move down the street until he turns a corner and is out of sight; and then he turns himself, letting his shoulders fall back against the side of the vehicle so the van takes his weight for a moment, and shuts his eyes under the pressure of the things he wanted to say, the things he didn’t give voice to for Takeda’s benefit.

“God, sensei,” Ukai murmurs, so softly even he can barely hear the words, so quietly they evaporate before they have a chance to touch the pavement at his feet. “I wish you were coming home with me instead.”

He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or regretful that Takeda isn’t around to hear him.


	51. Defeated

The team really did improve during the summer camp.

Takeda suspected it while they were still in Tokyo, imagined he could see a steady improvement in the fluidity of the players’ teamwork and the grace of their motions. But it’s obvious when they’re back in the familiar setting of the gym, clear in every footfall and every half-voiced shout as they move around each other with the ease of teammates who have been playing together far longer than Takeda knows most of them have been. It’s more remarkable even than he expected, impressive enough to make him smile just watching from the sidelines, and by the time practice is concluding he’s feeling hope like a glow inside his chest, can feel anticipation shining bright in his thoughts until his expectation for the team’s success almost entirely overrides his stress regarding his own personal life. He’s still smiling with the thought when Ukai approaches from the far side of the gym, still feeling bright and buoyed up by the satisfaction of it enough that even his newfound self-consciousness around the other man doesn’t stop him from observing, “They’re really very good, aren’t they?”

Ukai looks at Takeda sideways, just for a moment, a brief cut of his eyes without his head turning; but then he smiles, and looks back out at the court, and Takeda tips his head to watch the warm pride in the other’s expression as he considers the players.

“They are,” he says, and there’s no trace of that awkward distance Takeda has been so aware of, nothing but sincere happiness in the rumble of Ukai’s voice. “They’ve always had the potential for it, but they’re coming into their own now.”

“I’m so glad,” Takeda says, and he is, for the team and for the two of them, that whatever strained tension is between them personally they can still talk like this, can still be friendly on a professional level even if he no longer has security in Ukai’s feelings towards him beyond that. He stares for a moment longer than he should, letting his attention cling to the curve of Ukai’s lashes and the soft weight at his mouth; and then he looks away, out at the court where the team is collecting the volleyballs, and volunteers “I should be heading back,” to spare them both the awkwardness of avoiding the habitual walk home together that has fallen out of style over the past few weeks. Takeda can see Ukai glance his way, can see the shift of the other’s head as Ukai looks at him, but he doesn’t lift his chin to meet the other’s gaze. Better to keep his eyes on the court, better to keep his mind on the team, and the team’s success, and entirely away from the pained flutter of his heart in his chest. “I’ve got some essays I’ve been meaning to get to, if you don’t mind closing up the gym when you leave.”

Ukai won’t mind -- he’s volunteered for it enough over the last few days that Takeda is certain of that -- and Takeda is sure enough of the other’s agreement that he’s starting to move towards the door, starting to rock his weight into a step forward and away from the wall before Ukai clears his throat and says “You coming this weekend?” with such a weird strain on his throat that Takeda stumbles and nearly falls before he can catch his balance and turn back. Ukai’s watching him, his gaze focused on Takeda’s face; for a moment they make eye contact, there’s a heartbeat of a connection, and then Ukai turns his head and looks sideways to the corner of the gym instead.

“The Association’s meeting up as usual,” he says, aiming the words at the far wall instead of at Takeda. His shoulders are hunched, his mouth tense on the beginnings of a frown. “Will you be coming?”

Takeda’s heart stutters in his chest. There’s the possibility of an invitation under Ukai’s words, the outline of a suggestion if Takeda reaches for it; but Ukai looks so strained, and he sounds so much worse, and the way the words fall from his mouth make them sound like he’s afraid of the answer more than hoping for an affirmative. Takeda stares at him for a moment, takes in the crease at Ukai’s forehead and the hunch of his shoulders and the frown settling in at his mouth; and then he turns his head, and deliberately looks away at the court, and says, “I’m afraid I can’t make it” while he focuses his attention on the shift of the players moving around the volleyball nets. It’s easier to keep his voice level that way, easier to hold onto the brief, bright happiness that he found during the practice, and he keeps looking at the team, keeps focusing on the success of their training to keep his voice clear of the emotion tightening in his chest. “I fell behind on my grading during the camp, and if the players can keep up on their summer homework I should at least be able to do my part as an instructor, right?”

“Ah,” Ukai says. Takeda doesn’t look back to see what expression he’s making. “Of course, yeah.”

“I’m sure I’ll find the time to rejoin you in the future,” Takeda says, his tongue catching on the unfamiliar cadence of a deliberate lie, and then he reaches for a smile before he looks back to meet Ukai’s gaze. “My apologies, Ukai-kun.”

Ukai shrugs, his gaze sliding away again. “Responsibilities oughta come first, of course. Hope you get caught up on your grading soon.”

“I’ll do my best,” Takeda says, and then he lifts a hand to offer a wave that Ukai doesn’t look back to see. “Thank you again for closing up. Have a good night.”

“Night,” Ukai says, but Takeda is turning away already, resuming his movement across the gym to cut a straight-line path to the weight of the paired doors at the entrance. His heart is pounding, his hands trembling with needless adrenaline; he feels like he’s just come out of a fight, can feel the weight of resignation settling itself into his veins like lead weight in place of his blood. The heaviness slows his steps on the way home, and tangles his thoughts into loops around that brief conversation, and try as he might Takeda can’t parse the shadow of emotion that was clinging to Ukai’s voice and tense across the line of his shoulders.

It’s a relief, at least, to know that he has given Ukai an answer, to know that his refusal was clear enough to leave no room for doubt. Whatever dialogue was happening between them, Takeda is the one who ended it definitively, and that is a sort of success in itself.

Takeda just wishes it didn’t feel so much like defeat.


	52. Company

Ukai is not very good company.

He shouldn’t have come out at all. He’s been dreading meeting up with the others for drinks all day, aware even in the shadow of misery that is clinging to his every waking moment that he’s no fun to be around for himself and is hardly likely to contribute anything useful to the group with his presence. Every time he thinks of the party his memory offers back the angle of Takeda’s shoulders, the polite rejection on his tone as he offered what even at the time was clearly a white-lie excuse, and every time Ukai can feel his heart sinking, can feel whatever warmth he might have found for himself flicker and fade as if the sun has gone behind a cloud. It’s hard enough to keep his mind off Takeda and the disintegration of their relationship along with Ukai’s hopes when he’s alone; being with the others in a space he now associates with Takeda as much as with anything else is only going to be worse.

He goes anyway. He doesn’t want to, and he’s more dreading the outing than looking forward to it; but company will be good for him, he tells himself even if he doesn’t believe it, and he can hardly take to avoiding all the places he’s ever been with Takeda just to postpone the ache of his own heartbreak. Better to face it immediately, when he’s already hurting so much the extra pain will be easily lost to the backdrop of his constant unhappiness; the sooner he makes it through the first hurt the sooner he can start on the seemingly impossible task of continuing on without the warm assumption of Takeda’s company at his side. So he goes, and he might not be good company but he doesn’t have to be talkative to down his first beer in a matter of minutes, and the alcohol doesn’t help his mood but it takes the edge off the hurt, at least, makes him distractible into other lines of thought and more uplifting threads of conversation. By the time he’s halfway through his second beer Ukai has managed to go almost ten minutes without thinking of Takeda’s voice, or Takeda’s smile, or Takeda’s laughter; and then Takinoue says, “So Ukai, was your boyfriend busy with work tonight or something?” and everything in Ukai’s thoughts comes to a crashing halt.

He thinks at first Takinoue must be joking. The question is delivered so casually and is so impossible it seems more likely to be teasing than sincere. But no one else looks up with the grin that usually comes with the good-natured mockery they all offer each other, and Takinoue is looking more curious than amused, and Ukai has to swallow back a sudden knot in his throat before he can manage to say “ _Takeda_?” in a tone so strangled he can barely recognize his own voice.

“Yeah,” Takinoue says, and he was halfway to another sip of beer but he’s setting his glass down now, his forehead creasing onto concern as his smile fades from his mouth. “Was he not able to make it?”

Ukai blinks. “Takeda-sensei’s not my boyfriend.”

Takinoue’s mouth comes open, his eyes go wide. “Oh,” he says, and then, in a rush, “I’m sorry, I thought...I didn’t mean to bring up a bad subject. Did you have to shoot him down?”

Ukai flinches. It’s hard to hear his own misunderstanding echoed so clearly in someone else’s voice, hard to hear his own confusion remade sharp as a knife edge in his friend’s words. “Ah,” he says. “No. He, uh. He’s not interested in me.”

There’s a beat of silence. Takinoue’s not responding but the rest of the conversation is dying too, threads of discussion concluded or stalled out as the rest of the group turns to stare at Ukai. Ukai can feel himself going red just from the effect of all the attention suddenly being brought to bear on him, much less the subject under discussion, and there’s embarrassment hot in his veins, the crystalline unpleasantness at least bright enough to override the dull throb of misery aching in his chest.

“Oh,” Takinoue says finally, with the very deliberate tone that one uses like a wall to block an emotional reaction. “I see.”

“There’s no way,” Shimada says, cutting right over whatever polite construction Takinoue was aiming for, and Ukai’s attention swings sideways to meet the other’s gaze. Shimada is staring at him as fixedly as Takinoue is, but his mouth is caught on a frown instead of the confusion all over Takinoue’s face, his forehead is creasing on certainty. “He’s _absolutely_ interested in you.”

“No,” Ukai says, and the embarrassment is going sharp in his chest and tightening his throat to the verge of tears so the word comes out strained. “I thought so too, but he--”

“ _Is_ ,” Shimada says, his voice as steady and certain as Ukai has ever heard it. “Didn’t you see the way he stared at you?”

The knot in Ukai’s throat undoes itself in a rush, falling loose around the rush of air as his lungs empty themselves. “What?”

“He stares at you all the time,” Shimada says. “It was impossible to get his attention away from you.”

“ _All_ the time,” Takinoue agrees. “Did you never catch him at it?”

Ukai knows what they’re talking about; if he reaches for it he can recall the tilt of Takeda’s shoulders in to face him, can call up the memory of bright attention in gold eyes as Takeda beamed at whatever he was saying. But that’s just Takeda being Takeda, that’s just--

“He lit up whenever you looked at him,” Shimada goes on. “We thought for sure you were dating even that first night. What on earth happened to make you think he wasn’t interested?”

“I,” Ukai says, but he can’t find words, he can’t hold together the frail framework of the doubt he’s been nuturing for weeks against the weight of Takeda’s remembered smile. If that happiness was for him specifically, if that reaction was because-- “I don’t know.” He looks down at his glass of beer, reaches to pick the chill of the cup off the table; and then sets it back down again without taking a swallow, his heart pounding hard against his ribcage as his thoughts steady into determination.

“I have to go,” he says, and he’s pushing back from the table and getting to his feet in a rush so precipitous he nearly trips and falls in the attempt. He reaches for his wallet to locate money for his drinks; but there’s nothing inside, and just a few coins in his pocket not nearly enough to cover the cost. “Shit. I’ll have to find an ATM and make a withdrawal.”

“No you don’t,” Takinoue says, and reaches across the table to draw Ukai’s half-finished beer towards himself. “I’ll cover you. Just go.”

“Are you sure?” Ukai asks, because his heart is racing and he wants nothing so much as to be out of the restaurant and on the street but he can’t think straight enough to piece together this conversation. “I can--”

“Go,” Takinoue says, and looks up to grin at him. “Bring your sensei with you next time and you won’t even have to pay me back.”

“Okay,” Ukai says, “thanks” and he’s leaving, not even hesitating to hear the half-jeering encouragement shouted after him as he makes for the door of the restaurant. The night air is cool against his skin, the sidewalk familiar under his feet; he doesn’t have to think to turn towards Takeda’s house, doesn’t have to make a conscious decision to start jogging along the sidewalk leading him there.

He knows where he’s going, now.


	53. Relief

By the time he’s finished dinner, Takeda has almost convinced himself he made the right decision.

It’s been difficult, with nothing but the quiet of his empty house around him to fill his awareness of what he could have, of what he might be doing. Somewhere Ukai is laughing with his friends, with the men Takeda is just starting to consider acquaintances, their conversation warm and easy over the mugs of beer shared out between them, and there’s a part of Takeda that aches for that, for the simple distraction of companionship even if he’s separated from Ukai by the width of a table as they were in Tokyo. But the neighborhood association are Ukai’s friends first, and Takeda’s acquaintances second, and Ukai had sounded so strange in the gym that Takeda is sure his presence would be unwelcome to Ukai, even if not to the rest of the group. It’s perhaps possible that he didn’t fit in as well as he thought he did, that his presence had become more of a burden than he realized; or, more simply, just that Ukai’s deliberate attempts to put distance between them would struggle with the easy camaraderie that goes with the drinking parties. Perhaps Takeda can rejoin them later, when he and Ukai have relearned how to interact casually with each other; he holds to that thought, tries to cling to what optimism he can find from the ache of loss weighting his chest with what feel like the threat of tears, if he dared to let them free. But he doesn’t want to cry, least of all over a relationship he suspects now may have been his own invention in the first place, so he eats dinner, and takes a shower, and settles himself as comfortably as he can in the living room to distract himself with drafting lesson plans for his classes next week. It’s not enough to wholly undo the knot in his chest or in the back of his thoughts, but it gives him something on which to idle away the hours, gives him something to focus his attention upon while he waits for exhaustion to rise high enough to promise him the dreamless calm of sleep instead of the anxious weight of insomnia.

It takes him some time. Usually lesson plans can expand to fill a whole night all on their own; with his focus wandering in and out, an hour passes without Takeda noticing and without him making much progress on the work in front of him. He’s just working out a homework assignment for the end of the week when there’s a knock at the door, the sound loud and weighted with so much intention that the possibility of it being a mistake never crosses Takeda’s mind. He jolts to attention immediately, his idea for the assignment vanishing entirely from his mind, and he’s getting to his feet even as he checks the time, his heart pounding in panic at what must be some kind of an emergency for someone to be coming by so late. It’s past nine, well past the hour for any regular visitors; Takeda wonders if he missed a call, but he’s had his phone next to him all evening and it hasn’t rung at all. He’s making for the hallway, padding down the distance to the front door; and then he realizes he’s barely dressed, that he’s still wearing the thin shirt and briefs he put on when he came out of the shower, and he aborts his movement to backtrack in a rush to his bedroom. The shirt is fine, even if it’s so thin as to be nearly see-through, but he has to have some kind of pants on, he’s sure, even if it is an emergency. He finds a pair of sweatpants at the bottom of his drawer, folded over on themselves in expectation of the colder winter months, and he’s stumbling back down the hallway to the sound of another knock before he’s even pulled them on, tripping over the length of the hem as he drags the waistband up around his hips. By the time he’s reached the front door his heart is pounding, his breathing is catching, and he opens the door in full expectation of tears or blood or some other similarly critical emergency from one of his neighbors.

Ukai Keishin is standing on his front step.

He is so entirely the last person Takeda expected to see that for a brief moment he feels like the entire world has paused, like all of reality is reorienting itself to accommodate the basic fact of Ukai breathless in Takeda’s doorway. He’s flushed with heat, his cheeks bright with exercise or alcohol Takeda isn’t sure which, and his shoulders are shifting with the effort of too-fast breathing, but he looks far less panicked than Takeda expected, and far less injured than what would fit the emergency the other was anticipating.

“Ukai-kun,” Takeda’s mouth says for him, while his brain is still struggling to gain traction on the reality of the present moment. “Are you alright?” It’s not quite what he means to say -- _what are you doing here_ would be more accurate -- but in the first rush of his heart starting back up from that breathless pause it’s concern that wins out over confusion to pour off his tongue.

“Yes,” Ukai says, ducking his head into a nod so unhesitating as to leave no doubt of his sincerity. His gaze catches at Takeda’s eyes, slips down to the collar of his shirt; Takeda can see his lashes dip, can see his throat work as he takes a breath. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Oh,” Takeda says, because this is reassuring but that leaves him with no explanation at all for why Ukai is on his doorstep so late in the evening, or why he’s not at precisely the party Takeda has been doing his best to not think about all night. “Good, I’m glad.”

“Yeah,” Ukai says, his gaze sliding lower still; he really is breathing hard, Takeda can see the effort of his inhales working across the line of his shoulders. He lifts a hand, and pushes his fingers through his hair, and Takeda just has time to see the way his fingers are trembling before Ukai drops his hand, and lifts his chin, and the focus of his dark eyes catches and holds all Takeda’s focus.

“Sensei,” he says, and Takeda can feel the sound of Ukai’s voice shudder down his whole spine like a touch, as if the other’s tone is a fingertip trailing along the curve of his back. “I need--” Ukai cuts himself off, frowns hard at something in his own thoughts, shakes his head in a sudden rush of motion. Takeda stares at him, his heart pounding in his chest with all the adrenaline of worry converting smoothly into heat, with all the confusion in his thoughts not enough to overcome the glowing pleasure of Ukai here, on his doorstep, alone with him for even just a few unexpected moments.

“I screwed everything up,” Ukai says, clear and certain, and Takeda has no idea what he’s talking about but the other’s expression is sure, his eyes are dark and his mouth is set and he’s looking right at Takeda, he’s gazing directly at him like he hasn’t done in weeks. “I didn’t mean to, and I’m sorry, and I probably should have said this a long time ago but.” He takes a breath, and lets it out in a rush, and Takeda can feel heat shimmer over his skin like a sunburn, like electricity is dancing along the surface of his body and catching his vision bright-edged with expectation.

“I like you,” Ukai says, and then he huffs a sudden spill of a laugh, and lifts a hand to his hair. “That sounds stupid. But I do. I’ve liked you for a while.” He lets his hand fall, his fingers curling open and easy at his side, and Takeda’s whole body is prickling into heat, his eyes are wide and his mouth is open and he can’t take a breath for fear he’ll wake himself up and back into the reality to which he’s been resigning himself for days. That reality is reasonable, and rational, and mature, and it has no space at all for Ukai on his doorstep, breathless and flushed and trembling with sincerity as he says, “Please,” his voice soft and dipping warm on intensity. “Please go out with me.”

Takeda’s heart stutters in his chest. He can feel it like an electrical shock running through him to pattern his breathing into a strange, hiccuping inhale. He can’t think, and he can’t move, but he’s so warm, his skin is flushing hot as if he were standing in direct sunlight, and his heart is pounding desperate against his ribcage and he can see the piercings for Ukai’s absent earrings in his ears and this isn’t a dream, this isn’t a fantasy, this is Ukai standing in front of him with his clothes rumpled and his breathing harsh and it’s real, all of it is real and Takeda is starting to smile, and he can see Ukai’s expression going soft on relief as clearly as he can feel the happiness blossoming all across his face like flowers after a storm.

“Oh,” he says, and it’s relief on his tongue, and it’s satisfaction in his throat, and it’s happiness in his chest and shuddering through his hands and weakening his knees until he has to hold the edge of the door to keep to his feet. His exhale comes out as a laugh, the sound helpless and warm at his lips, and Ukai is starting to smile too, his whole expression unfolding into soft delight as Takeda feels himself going airy light, as Takeda’s entire sense of reality goes breathless and warm and perfect. “Yes, Ukai-kun, yes, of course.”

It’s the easiest question he’s ever answered.


	54. Private

This is not what Ukai expected.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, exactly. He hasn’t had much time to think about it during the headlong rush from the restaurant to Takeda’s front doorstep; he’s been too lost to the rhythm of his feet on the pavement, and the hiss of his breathing in his chest, and the press of hope rising clear and desperate in his veins. He doesn’t have a plan, and he doesn’t have an expectation when he draws to a stop at Takeda’s front step and raps hard against the door; he doesn’t even consider the possibility that Takeda might not be home or might not be awake until it’s been several seconds without any response, and even then the idea isn’t enough to stop him from another knock. His heart is pounding harder, worry taking over the leading edge of determined hope in his veins; but then there’s the sound of the handle turning, and the door comes open, and all Ukai’s unformed ideas evaporate against the reality of Takeda’s presence.

Ukai’s never seen him look like this before. Takeda’s wearing what looks like an undershirt, the thin fabric of it catching and clinging to his shoulders and the dip of his collarbones, and there’s an oversized pair of sweatpants hanging off his hips, but it’s his expression that catches Ukai’s attention, the tousled mess of his hair and the bright of his eyes gone wide on shocked adrenaline over the sleepy soft of his mouth. He looks like he’s just toppled out of bed, or like he’s on his way there right now, and Ukai can’t think straight and can’t find words for a moment, not when Takeda is standing in front of him looking so warm and drowsy and _domestic_.

“Ukai-kun,” Takeda says, sounding a little bit breathless and a lot shocked. His gaze skims across Ukai’s face, shoulders, chest, a rapid scan like he can find some insight into why the other man has appeared on his doorstep with no warning. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Ukai says, immediately, because the concern in Takeda’s expression is twisting his heart with guilt for worrying him even as briefly as the few seconds that he’s been standing here. He nods to offer support to the statement, aiming for the most sincerity he can find, and Takeda’s shoulders ease, the tension of panic unwinding visibly from his body. The movement shifts his shirt against his skin, lets the collar slide wider off the curve of his neck, and Ukai’s attention slips down, drawn helplessly to the pale of Takeda’s skin left bare by the fabric. For just a moment his imagination catches fire, suggests the press of lips to warm skin and the shudder of Takeda’s reaction against his mouth, and for once rationality stays silent and leaves Ukai to shiver through the reaction and blink hard to draw himself back to the reality of the present moment in his own time.

“Yeah,” he manages to get out while he’s still fighting with the flush of heat that surges through him like the sudden spark of a flame. “I’m fine.”

“Oh,” Takeda says, and he looks a little confused, worry is starting to fold itself into a crease of uncertainty at his forehead, but he sounds relieved by this statement, at least. “Good, I’m glad.”

“Yeah.” Ukai can’t stop staring; he should look away, he knows, he ought to pull his eyes back up to Takeda’s unsuspicious gaze and figure out what on earth he’s going to _say_ , now that he has himself where he needs to be at last, but he can’t control the drift of his attention from following along the soft collar of Takeda’s shirt, or clinging to the fold of fabric caught at the top of his sweatpants. The cloth is caught on one side, pinned tight to Takeda’s hip by the elastic of the waistband; Ukai wants to catch the cloth in his fingers, wants to push it up and off the curve of Takeda’s hip, and how did he ever think he could get over this, all his efforts at distance have done nothing at all to cool the burn of want that hits him every time Takeda takes a breath. He lifts a hand to his hair, pushes his fingers roughly through the strands in an attempt to focus himself, and it doesn’t help pull his attention away from Takeda but it does drag him around to his original goal, reminds him that Takeda is still standing in front of him utterly confused as to what Ukai is doing on his front step in the middle of the night. Ukai lets his hand fall, and lifts his chin, and Takeda is watching him, his eyes wide and bright and focused in that way he always gets -- in that way he always gets _for Ukai_ \-- like the whole world has narrowed down to whatever the other man has to say, like he would be willing to wait forever to hear what Ukai has to tell him, and really Ukai’s kept him waiting long enough.

“Sensei,” Ukai says, the word purring in the back of his throat, collecting shadows from the nights he’s groaned it to the dark of his room and the bright of Takeda’s smile of response every time he says it to the other man. “I need--” but that’s not right, he’s skipping ahead, everything is out of order in his head and on his tongue and he closes his mouth on the words and shakes his head to pull himself back to the moment. His heart is racing, his blood humming like fire in his veins, but Takeda’s still waiting for him, still watching him with all that patient attention in his eyes, and there’s only one thing Ukai can find to say.

“I screwed everything up.” Takeda blinks, his expression going slack in shock, but Ukai doesn’t wait for a response, not now that he knows what to say. “I didn’t mean to, and I’m sorry, and I probably should have said this a long time ago but.” His heart is pounding, his head is going light on dizziness, but the words are there anyway, they’re on his tongue even as he pauses to gasp a lungful of air and brace himself against the immediacy of the confession. “I like you.”

It sounds stupid as soon as he says it, like the nervous blurt of a high schooler talking to his crush at the back of the school. Ukai coughs a laugh without thinking, anxiety and adrenaline and desperate hope getting the better of him, and when he moves it’s to lift a hand to his hair again, to ruffle through the strands as if the weight of his own touch will somehow tie him to reality. “That sounds stupid,” he admits. Takeda is staring at him. Ukai doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so shocked. “But I do. I’ve liked you for a while.” He lets his hand fall, lets the bracing weight of his fingers against his scalp go; Takeda doesn’t so much as blink at the motion, doesn’t seem to track the action at all.

“Please,” Ukai says, and the word turns to a true plea on his tongue, taking on all the desperate hope in his chest and all the anxious desire in his veins. “Please go out with me.”

Takeda stares at Ukai for the span of a heartbeat. Ukai can see shock clear in his face, can make out nothing except for pure surprise in the other’s expression for a moment. And then he blinks, and Ukai can see the change wash over his face, can see his mouth go soft and his eyes light up as if the sun is rising under his skin, and Ukai knows what he’s going to say, knows it as soon as he sees that bright in Takeda’s eyes, even before the other’s mouth starts to curve up into a smile warmer and softer than any Ukai’s ever seen before.

“Oh,” Takeda says, very softly, and very simply, like he’s letting out a breath he’s been holding some unmeasured span of time. His smile cracks wider, bursts into a laugh for just a moment, and Ukai is starting to smile too, he can feel the warmth spreading out into his veins as if Takeda’s sunshine is warming all his skin with the promise of summer. “Yes, Ukai-kun, of course.”

Ukai doesn’t think. He can’t find coherency in his thoughts, or rationality in his movements, or anything in his entire self except for the bright haze of happiness expanding to fill his whole body with light. He’s taking a step forward without thinking, and reaching out towards Takeda’s hair -- and his fingers land against softness without hesitation, this time, sink into the feathery curls he’s spent so long thinking about, and Takeda’s eyelashes are fluttering and his head is tipping in against Ukai’s palm and Ukai is leaning in closer and closing the gap between them more from instinct than intention. It’s not until he takes a breath and feels Takeda’s exhale against his lips that he realizes how close he is, that he realizes what he’s about to do, and even then he only hesitates for a breath to reach for coherency that lets him manage “Is this okay?”as if he needs the confirmation, as if he can’t feel how fast Takeda is breathing against his mouth.

Takeda laughs, a sudden startled giggle at Ukai’s lips. There’s a shift of movement, a hand coming up to ghost against Ukai’s hair, and then Takeda’s saying “Please” and turning his head up as he draws Ukai down, and Ukai shuts his eyes and lets his lips find Takeda’s. Takeda’s warm to the touch, his mouth hotter than his skin and softer than his hair, and Ukai’s heart is thudding sharp and hard against his chest but Takeda is melting against him, Takeda’s hold against his neck is steadying to brace him in place and Takeda is kissing him, soft and slow and thorough as if he’s made a study of it, as if his entire existence has led up to the press of his mouth against Ukai’s in this moment. Ukai’s pulse is speeding, he can’t catch his breath, and when he pulls away it’s only for a moment, only so he can gasp a lungful of air and try to regain his grip on the gravity that seems to be evaporating away from under him.

“Sensei,” Ukai breathes, that one word formed of all the stunned heat in his veins; and “Ukai-kun,” Takeda groans, his voice catching into a register that Ukai has never heard from him before as his fingers tighten in Ukai’s hair and his other hand comes up to grab at the other’s shirt. Ukai has a moment to process the sudden force behind Takeda’s touch; and then the other man’s mouth is against his again, there’s a push against his shoulder, and Ukai is stumbling backwards, too dizzy on heat and distracted by the press of Takeda’s lips to resist. His shoulders hit resistance, the air rushing out of his lungs as he grabs at the other’s shoulder to steady himself, but Takeda’s not drawing away; he’s pushing in closer, catching Ukai between the wall at his back and the press of his body, and Ukai very suddenly has more sensation against him than he knows what to do with. Takeda’s hand is still in Ukai’s hair, his fingers sliding through the strands and against the back of the other’s neck like he’s holding him in place, but he’s pressed hard against Ukai’s chest, too, the thin of his shirt catching between them and tugging up by a span of inches when Ukai tries to brace himself back into reality. Takeda’s hips are against his, his whole body arching forward to pin Ukai back to the wall, and then he opens his mouth and licks past the heat of Ukai’s lips and Ukai groans without meaning to, spilling instinctive reaction against Takeda’s tongue. Takeda makes a faint sound, something almost a whimper and mostly a purr, and then he’s pressing himself impossibly closer, coming up onto his tiptoes until Ukai has to let the other’s shoulder go and grab at his hip instead just to keep them steady. Takeda shudders, his whole body quivering under Ukai’s hold, and when he rocks against Ukai it’s with a deliberate, grinding weight that steals all Ukai’s breath far more effectively than his rush over here did. For a moment his hand tightens at Takeda’s hip, his fingers sliding over the flush of bare skin to pull him closer; and then his shoulders catch at the doorframe at his back, and he remembers where they are all in a rush.

“Wait,” he manages, struggling for coherency against the heat of Takeda’s mouth on his. Takeda curves against him again and Ukai groans, the sound too instinctive in the back of his throat to catch back. “Wait, sensei, we should.”

“Oh,” Takeda says, his voice still as dark and shadowed as his eyes; and then “ _Oh_ ,” catching back into his normal range, as he pulls back a stumbling step from direct contact with Ukai’s body. Ukai wishes he didn’t feel quite so immediately bereft at the loss. “Ukai-kun, I am _so_ sorry.”

“Don’t,” Ukai says, fast, before Takeda can gain any traction for the apology in his throat. “I just. Uh. We might be scandalizing your neighbors.”

Takeda blinks. Ukai can almost see the awareness of their surroundings come back into his gaze, can see startled self-awareness catch up with the heat still clinging soft to the curve of his lower lip.

“Oh,” he says, and then he’s drawing away, pulling his fingers away from Ukai’s hair and letting his hold on the other’s shirt go as he steps back. Ukai lets him go, even if his chest aches with odd desperation at the loss, as if the possibility of the future is a concept too difficult for the heat in him in place of reason to grasp. “Yes. You’re right.” Takeda reaches up to push at his glasses; from how badly his hands are shaking Ukai doesn’t think this is much help, but then he feels like his entire body is trembling with barely-restrained adrenaline, so he’s hardly in a place to criticize.

Takeda runs a hand through his hair, presses his palms to the sides of his legs; there’s something charming about the focus of it, as if he has to consciously restrain himself from reaching out to press his touch against the temptation of Ukai in front of him. “Not on the front step,” he says, and then he looks up, and his eyes are dark, and Ukai can see the dimple that catches at the corner of his smile like a secret when he says, “Would you like to come in, Ukai-kun?” in an attempt at professional politeness only barely spoiled by the shimmer of withheld laughter under the question.

Ukai takes a breath and lets it out slowly in a completely futile attempt to calm his racing heart. “Sure,” he says. “I’d love that.”

Takeda’s smile drags wider, crinkling delight into the bright of his eyes; and then he turns to the door, and steps over the threshold, and Ukai moves to follow him before Takeda has turned back around to gesture him inside. Takeda beams at him, his whole face an open invitation to happiness, and as he reaches up to curl his fingers back around Ukai’s neck Ukai reaches out without looking and pushes the door shut just as Takeda draws him back into another kiss.

He has a feeling they’ll want the privacy.


	55. Clarity

It takes them a while to make it out of the entryway. Takeda didn’t intend to throw himself into Ukai’s arms quite the way he did, but once he has the soft of the other’s t-shirt under his hands and the heat of the other’s body pressed against his it’s all he can manage to pull back enough to let them stumble through the front door so they can continue on the other side of the entrance. It’s Ukai who pushes Takeda back once they’re inside, the weight of Ukai’s hold at his hip and shoulder that urges him backwards and up against the wall alongside the door; Takeda submits to the force, lets his feet follow the guidance of Ukai’s push rather than bothering with pulling away long enough to look where he’s going, and then there’s support at his back and Ukai in front of him and they’re back to kissing like they were on the front step with their positions reversed. Takeda can feel his whole body shaking with adrenaline, can feel his heart pounding to impossible speed in his chest, but even the tremor of his fingers against Ukai’s neck is unimportant for the first several minutes because Ukai is kissing him, weighting his mouth with the press of his lips in a breathless pattern of contact-and-pulling-back, a slide of friction for long, warm seconds before he retreats to gasp for air against Takeda’s mouth. It makes Takeda lightheaded, makes him feel like the whole world is spinning slightly around them, until when Ukai draws back and takes a breath to steady himself it takes Takeda a moment to realize he’s not leaning back in for another round.

“We should,” Ukai says, and Takeda blinks his vision back to clarity to see the way Ukai is staring at him, to see how soft the other’s gaze has gone as he looks down at Takeda. They’ve never been this close before today, Takeda thinks hazily, he’s never before seen Ukai’s eyes or mouth this close up; he can see the dark of individual lashes framing the other’s eyes, can see the damp of his mouth clinging to Ukai’s lips. Ukai’s gaze slides away from Takeda’s eyes and down the line of his nose to linger against his mouth, and Takeda can see him swallow in an effort to hold himself together. “Just. Take a minute.”

“Okay,” Takeda agrees without moving his hands from the hold he’s had on Ukai’s shoulders ever since they made it past the front door. His voice is wrecked, rough at the edges and fading at the top range as if he’s been shouting, or running, or doing something far more physically exhausting than letting Ukai kiss him back against the wall of his entryway. “I could make some tea?”

Ukai’s smile is startling from this close up, spreading sudden all across his face to curve at the corners of his eyes and unwind into a low chuckle in his throat. “Okay,” he says, and he loosens his hold at Takeda’s hip and starts to move backwards by a half-step to reintroduce some space between their bodies. “Sure.”

“I will,” Takeda says, and then he tugs at Ukai’s shoulders to draw him down closer for just a moment, to pull him back into another quick kiss. Ukai groans something against his mouth, appreciation or protest Takeda’s not sure which, but he’s smiling when the other pulls back, his mouth curving on happiness even as Takeda steps sideways and free of Ukai’s hold.

“I’ll put the water on,” Takeda says, and then he’s moving down the hallway, his feet catching and stumbling over each other from the distraction of Ukai’s touch still lingering against his shoulder. Ukai grabs at his elbow, Takeda catches his balance, and when he looks back Ukai is smiling at him, his whole expression gone soft like he can’t recall how to hold himself to composure.

“Come and meet me in the kitchen,” Takeda says, and then he moves away down the hallway, slowly enough to avoid tripping over himself this time.

Ukai does. By the time the kettle is on to heat he’s standing over Takeda’s shoulder, pressing so close Takeda can feel how warm he is even before Ukai’s fingers catch and curl against the hair at the back of Takeda’s neck. Takeda gets the burner turned on, and the kettle set to warm, and then he turns back around and they’re kissing again, gently this time, carefully to match the delicate drag of Ukai’s fingers in Takeda’s hair. It’s the kettle whistling that pulls them apart, and then Takeda’s so flustered with heat he has to check three cabinets before he finds the tin of tea leaves. Ukai’s managing the stove when he turns back around, shutting the burner off and pulling the kettle off the heat to calm the shrill whine of the steam, and between them they manage to achieve the simple task of making a pot of tea without any major issues or even any burns. Ukai takes the pot over to Takeda’s table, Takeda locates the clean cups from the drying rack where he last set them, and then they settle themselves on opposite sides of the table to smile helplessly at each other while they wait for the tea to steep.

Takeda isn’t sure what to say. He’s happy, he’s happy all through his entire body, he can feel it like warmth radiating through his veins; but words won’t come when he reaches for them, there’s no way to frame the delight in him into anything other than the helpless smile he’s offering across the table to Ukai. Ukai doesn’t seem much better -- he’s staring at Takeda as if he’s never seen him before, and if he’s holding back his smile better it’s only the brighter when it breaks free to glow all across his face as he ducks his head to hide it. Takeda feels like he’s going to float up off the floor, like his whole existence is coming undone from reality; his thoughts are still drifting dizzily through his mind when Ukai clears his throat and reaches for the teapot and says “I really am sorry,” without looking up to meet Takeda’s eyes. “I screwed everything up.”

“Oh,” Takeda says. Ukai lifts the pot in a suggestion and Takeda blinks and reaches for his cup to hold it out. “I don’t think you did anything of the sort.”

Ukai glances up at him, starts to smile, looks back down to watch the tea filling Takeda’s cup. “I did,” he insists, pulling the pot away so he can fill his own. “I thought you were interested before but then I just.” He frowns at his cup, shakes his head as if to push aside whatever is in his head. “Got hung up on my own issues.”

Takeda blinks at the pale color of Ukai’s hair, at the dark of his lashes as he ducks close to blow at the steam rising off his cup of tea. He’s sure Ukai’s wrong, sure it wasn’t the other man’s fault, but: “You were interested?” he asks, faint and a little bit shaky in the back of his throat. “Before now?”

Ukai looks up at him sharply, his brows drawing together in a crease as his mouth drops into a frown. “Well, yeah,” he says, and then he clears his throat and looks away from Takeda’s expression in a rush. “I was asking you out on dates, I thought I was being real obvious about it.”

“Oh,” Takeda says, and he’s starting to smile helplessly now. It feels like all the radiant happiness of this moment is spilling over into his memories, filling up the shadowy doubts of the past with bright delight as he turns them back over in his mind. “I thought--I hoped you were, but I wasn’t certain I was interpreting your intentions correctly.”

“Fuck,” Ukai growls, but he’s starting to smile down at his cup of tea, his expression breaking wide into the threat of laughter even as he shakes his head and lifts a hand to push through his hair. “I shoulda just _told_ you and we could have skipped all this.”

“I’m at fault as well,” Takeda insists, and Ukai looks up past his arm to watch him as Takeda tips in farther over the table, his shoulders tilting in to underscore his point. “I was interested in you as soon as I met you at the store.”

Ukai’s eyebrows go up, his mouth quirks on a grin. “Damn, sensei,” he says, and his voice is dropping into a purr Takeda can feel run all through his body, dipping through the low range that always makes him shudder like Ukai’s fingers are dragging over his skin. “You sure move fast, don’t you? You barely even knew me.”

Takeda can’t hold back the smile that spreads over his face. “I suppose so,” he admits. “I felt that I knew enough.”

“I still have you beat,” Ukai tells him, leaning back to brace a hand against the floor and bringing his teacup to his mouth as he smirks at Takeda. “I was half in love with your voice way before I saw you.”

Takeda coughs on the too-hot sip of tea he tries to take. “My _voice_?”

“Yeah.” Ukai’s going red, Takeda can see the color spreading across his cheeks, but he does a better job of swallowing a mouthful of tea than Takeda did. “I looked forward to those damn phone calls every day after the first couple nights.”

Takeda blinks at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Ukai swallows another mouthful before reaching out to set his cup back on the table. He glances up at Takeda, looks down again as he starts to smile. “I kept trying to tell myself you couldn’t look as good as you sounded and then you came in the door of the shop and.” He cuts himself off, clearing his throat with the rough edge of a cough.

“Oh,” Takeda says. He’s going warm all over his body, his skin prickling self-consciousness at the months-old memory of Ukai behind the counter of the store, at the blank expression on his face as Takeda introduced himself. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah,” Ukai says to the table. “I didn’t want you to, not until I started to think you might be interested too.”

“I was,” Takeda says, as if this needs repeating, as if Ukai might not believe him if he doesn’t keep saying it at semi-regular intervals. “I was so happy when you invited me out with your friends, I thought maybe you were--”

“Yeah,” Ukai says, and he’s looking back up now, his eyes are dark on Takeda’s face and he’s leaning in over the table again to match the other’s forward tilt. “I was. I did.” He huffs a laugh and ducks his head to look up through his lashes at Takeda. “You know when you brought that sake over and we were drinking together? I wanted to kiss you on the front steps after I walked you back home.”

“Oh,” Takeda breathes, and he’s smiling again, his whole face is warm and flushed with happiness and he can’t figure out how to hold himself to reality. “I almost kissed you over the table that night when we were talking about your earrings.”

“Jesus,” Ukai laughs. “Wish you had.”

“I do too,” Takeda admits, and Ukai’s leaning forward and reaching out for his hair again and he’s shuddering at the contact, shutting his eyes to the rush of heat that runs through him at the weight of Ukai’s fingers in his hair and settling against the back of his neck. He’s warm all through, he feels like he’s melting against the weight of the other’s touch, and then he opens his mouth and says, “Do you want to stay the night?” before he takes the time to think through the implication of the question. Ukai’s hand stalls, he takes a startled inhale, and Takeda opens his eyes in a rush to see the dark in the look the other is giving him.

“I don’t mean anything more than that,” he backtracks hurriedly, reaching up to catch Ukai’s wrist and hold the other’s hand still as if he’s made any motion to pull away. “Though I wouldn’t mind if you wanted--” and Ukai makes a faint noise in the back of his throat, something low and almost pained with heat, and Takeda shakes his head and tries to force himself back into focus. “It’s just that it’s getting late, and if you’d rather stay here I can put out a futon for you for the night so we could keep talking.” He takes a breath, lets it out in a rush; he can feel the shudder of it against the inside of his chest. “I’d like you to stay, if you wanted.”

Ukai blinks at Takeda, his eyes so dark Takeda can’t read any detail from them; then his mouth catches on a smile, the expression tugging at the corner of his eyes to crinkle against his lashes. “Just sleeping?”

“Yes,” Takeda agrees, helpless to the smile at his mouth even as Ukai tips in across the table towards him. “Just sleeping.”

It’s not a problem, he thinks as Ukai’s fingers curl at the back of his neck and Ukai’s mouth catches the corner of his lips. Takeda will be as patient as he needs to be now that he has the promise of what he wants in the press of Ukai’s mouth against his.


	56. Dawn

Ukai wakes before Takeda.

It’s habit, he thinks, the outdated routine of waking up before dawn that still clings to him even on his most exhausted nights to pull him into bleary consciousness before his alarm goes off. Usually it’s only for a minute, maybe long enough for him to fumble out of bed and find his way to a glass of water before he collapses back to sleep for another hour or two of rest; but this morning he stirs as usual, and turns his head against the pillow as usual, and then he opens his eyes, and sees the unfamiliar surroundings, and is suddenly entirely awake. He remembers where he is almost immediately -- it comes hard on the first shock of waking in a room he’s only barely seen -- but that rush of adrenaline is enough to entirely chase away the lingering weight of sleep from his mind even before he’s moved to push up from bed. The futon under him is unfamiliar too, warm from the weight of his body and soft enough that he apparently slept straight through the entire night; and then he turns his head, and sees Takeda, and all his personal considerations fade into unimportance for the first moment of appreciation.

Takeda is still asleep; only reasonable, given how early Ukai suspects it is from the pale of the light on the other side of the drawn curtains. His glasses are off, safely stored away for the night; without them his face looks softer even than it usually does, like he’s aged himself down a whole handful of years just by taking the weight of the frames off his face. They’re close by each other, only separated by the span of a few feet for the night; Ukai can see the dark weight of Takeda’s lashes against his cheeks, can almost make out the pattern of those freckles he knows have settled against the bridge of the other’s nose. His face is relaxed, his lips parted on his breathing; one arm is angled out wide over the distance between them, his wrist turned up as if Takeda is making an unconscious offering of his hand for Ukai’s. Ukai wants to take it, wants to curl his fingers in around Takeda’s and lean in to kiss the heavy rhythm of breathing off his lips, wants to reach out to brush the dark of the other’s hair back from the curling mess sleep has made of it; but Takeda’s breathing is steady, and his face is relaxed, and something in Ukai hesitates to disturb him as much from an unwillingness to pull the other awake as from an awareness of the unreasonably early hour of the morning. He looks instead, drinking in all the details of Takeda’s expression as he’s never let himself do before, as he’s always tried to stop himself from doing in the past; and then Takeda stirs, and hums something in the back of his throat, and opens his eyes to meet Ukai’s gaze.

“Mm,” he says, the sound soft and incoherent with sleep as his mouth starts to curve up into a drowsy smile. “Ukai-kun.” He doesn’t sound surprised in the least to find Ukai awake and watching him; there’s just pleasure under his voice, just the purr of sleepy happiness like he’s talking in his sleep more than fully awake. He draws his extended hand back in towards himself and pushes the weight of his palm across his face as he yawns through the first few breaths of waking; when he emerges he’s smiling entirely, his whole face lighting up with joy even under the lingering traces of drowsiness at the corners of his eyes. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” Ukai’s smiling too; Takeda’s happiness is utterly contagious even if he didn’t have more than enough of his own to be dealing with. “Good to see you.”

“Yes,” Takeda agrees. He hasn’t reached for his glasses; in the dim lighting the gold of his eyes looks grey, the bright of the color easing to something soft and shadowed and suggestive. When he reaches out it’s to catch his fingers against Ukai’s shoulder, to touch his fingertips to the other’s shirt for a moment before he lets his hand fall to Ukai’s wrist, the contact so casually affectionate it takes all Ukai’s breath away. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah.” Ukai shifts his balance sideways and over the support of his far elbow so he can turn his hand up against Takeda’s; the angle of their hands is wrong for their fingers to interlace, but Takeda smiles when Ukai catches his hold around the other’s wrist, and that’s good enough for Ukai even without the careful weight of Takeda’s touch drifting against the inside line of his wrist. “I haven’t slept that well in weeks. Did I keep you up by snoring or something?”

Takeda’s laugh is softer in the early morning, the bright shine of it dampened to a half-voiced purr in the very back of his throat. Ukai thinks he could be happy hearing that every morning for the rest of his life. “Not at all,” he says, still smiling down at their clasped hands with dreamy attention. “I liked having you here.”

“Yeah?” Ukai says, and he’s smiling and he can’t hold it back even if he were trying to. “I liked being here.”

Takeda looks up to glow at him. His gaze is still hazy, his eyes struggling for focus without the assistance of his glasses, but his expression is sunshine-bright even in the pre-dawn grey of the light outside. “Did you?” He sounds delighted, sounds pleased and as stunned as if he didn’t expect this answer, as if he thinks there’s somewhere Ukai would rather be at any time than right next to him.

“Yeah,” Ukai says again, and he’s leaning down without thinking about it, smiling the wider as he draws close enough for Takeda’s gaze to come into focus on his features, close enough that Takeda can and does reach up to catch his fingers into the tangle sleep has made of Ukai’s hair. “I really did.” Takeda laughs, the sound purring warmth against Ukai’s mouth, and Ukai grins and submits to the urging of Takeda’s hand in his hair pulling him down and into a kiss.

Ukai thinks he could get used to waking up like this.


	57. Understood

They barely make it in time for Ukai to open the store. Takeda knew what time it was when they woke, and knew what time Ukai needed to be at work, but they spent longer than he expected tangled in the blankets of his bedroom, and although they left with enough time to make the walk distraction must have slowed their steps along the familiar route to the store. They have to jog the last block to make it in time, and even if no one is waiting outside the doors for the shop to open Takeda can feel a prickle of guilt settling in between his shoulderblades as Ukai fishes his keys out of his pocket to unlock the glass doors.

“I’m sorry for the delay,” he offers, even though Ukai is looking at the door and not at him. “I didn’t intend to make you late to work.”

“Don’t be,” Ukai says, glancing sideways at Takeda as he pushes the lock open and draws the key free. There’s a quirk of amusement at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of warmth behind his eyes before he looks away to push the store door open and step into the dim aisles of the unlit shop. Takeda trails him without thinking, drawn by the shift of Ukai’s shoulders and the curve of his lips as much as by rationality, and Ukai pauses to hold the door open for him so Takeda can follow him into the store. “It was worth it.” That makes Takeda smile helpless warmth, remembering the drag of Ukai’s fingers in his hair and the soft heat of the kissing they had in lieu of breakfast, and Ukai isn’t moving away to find the lightswitch and illuminate the store; he’s standing still in the middle of the floor instead, that smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth as the store door swings shut behind them. His shirt is clinging to his shoulders, the line of the seams slightly crooked from the drag of sleep that hasn’t been completely undone; Takeda’s attention wanders against the lopsided neckline, trailing across the edge of Ukai’s collarbone left bare by the open curve of the collar.

“It would have been nice to at least get you a change of clothes,” he says absently, his focus still clinging to Ukai’s t-shirt more than his face. He can remember the way that shirt felt under his hands, can remember the give of it crumpling to the tension of his fingers and pushing sideways to give him access to bare skin, and he’s going warmer just at the thought, his cheeks picking up color as he considers Ukai’s shirt. “It’s unfortunate that we didn’t have the time to stop by your home on the way in.”

“It’s fine,” Ukai says, his voice a little bit rough in the back of his throat like he’s attempting a growl. “It’s not the first time I’ve come to work on a Sunday in the same clothes I was wearing the night before.” Then he laughs, the sound so low it rumbles into a purr, and Takeda looks up to see Ukai grinning down at him. “This is a much better reason than just ‘cause I drank too much to get myself home. I’ll change when I get done with my shift this afternoon.”

“Ah,” Takeda says, and reaches up to push unnecessarily at his glasses. “About that.”

Ukai’s lashes flutter, his gaze dipping to darkness for a moment. “Yeah.”

Takeda takes a deliberate breath. “You said you had the first few shifts at the store today?”

“Yeah,” Ukai says. Takeda looks up at him; Ukai is watching him with more shadows behind his eyes than even the dim in the store can account for. Takeda can hear the deliberate swallow he takes. “I’ll be here until the afternoon.”

“Yes,” Takeda agrees. He wants to push his glasses up again but he resists the urge, curls his fingers in against his palm to steady himself instead. When he opens his mouth the words topple out one over the other, the question coming so fast it’s almost unintelligible. “Do you have other plans for later this evening, Ukai-kun?”

“Oh,” Ukai sighs, and it’s relief on his voice, Takeda doesn’t have to think to interpret the sound even before Ukai’s expression breaks into the wide bright of a grin. “No, nothing.”

“Do you want--” Takeda starts, but Ukai’s talking over him, blurting “Do you want to come over?” with so much speed he finishes his sentence before Takeda has managed to stop the words in his own throat. Ukai hesitates, ducks his head, clears his throat at the floor. “If you have time,” he says, somewhat more softly than he made his first offer. “I know you’ve probably got papers to grade and that kind of thing.”

“No,” Takeda says, and it’s too fast and he knows it is but he doesn’t care, his whole body is going hot with the rush of adrenaline responding to Ukai’s suggestion. “No, I don’t, I can be free whenever you get off work.”

Ukai glances up at him, a flicker of dark eyes that catch and hold Takeda’s. “My shift’s over at four.”

“I’ll be here.”

Ukai’s mouth quirks on a smile. “You should, uh, probably bring a change of clothes for yourself,” he says, clearing his throat from the rough edge of embarrassment darkening his voice, but Takeda barely notices for how all-over hot he goes, for the way his imagination wrestles free of his self-restraint to spark itself alight with sudden invention. His eyelashes dip heavy, his throat tightens on his breathing, and he has to shut his mouth hard to restrain the breathless sound on his exhale that would turn it into entirely too much of a moan. Ukai huffs an exhale, his gaze going dark at whatever he sees in Takeda’s face; and Takeda swallows hard, and struggles himself into a response of “Alright” that sounds only half as overheated as he feels.

“Fuck,” Ukai breathes, his voice giving way on the sound. “You--” He cuts himself off, closes his lips tight on whatever he was going to say as he shakes his head; when he opens his mouth again it’s to huff a laugh while he reaches up to push a hand through his hair. “I’m not going to be able to get anything done today.”

“No,” Takeda agrees, hearing the word tremble on anticipation in the back of his throat. “Me either.”

“Okay,” Ukai says, and he clears his throat again, his gaze dropping to catch at Takeda’s mouth. “You should probably go before I get any more ideas about shirking my responsibilities.”

“Right,” Takeda agrees again. “Yes. I’ll see you at four o’clock here.”

“Good.” Ukai’s still staring at Takeda’s mouth. “I’ll see you then.”

“Yes.” Takeda can’t move, can’t turn away from the suggestion of Ukai’s gaze holding against his lips; his heart is beating faster in his chest, his whole body flickering to heat under the other’s stare. “I should head home.”

“Wait,” Ukai says, and Takeda waits, going as utterly still as if he never intends to move his feet again. Ukai looks away from him, his gaze flickering up and out to glance out the glass windows of the store; and then he steps forward, crossing the few feet of distance between them in one stride as he reaches out for Takeda’s shoulder to interpose his arm between the clear windows and the two of them. It’s a minor effort, not nearly enough to leave any doubt of what they’re doing for any curious passersby, but Takeda is turning his head up to meet the press of Ukai’s mouth on his and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care that someone might look in to see the way his hand fits into a fist on Ukai’s shirt or the way Ukai’s arm presses around his shoulders to hold him steady against the gentle heat of his lips.

He doesn’t care who sees, not when he’s finally right where he wants to be.


	58. Friction

It’s hard to keep a reasonable distance between them on the walk home. Takeda showed up ten minutes before the end of Ukai’s shift, warm and flushed and smiling all over his face until Ukai wanted to do nothing so much as frame the other’s shoulders between the weight of his hands and kiss him back against one of the sturdier shelves in the store. It was difficult just to keep his hands to himself and impossible to keep his thoughts focused, and by the time Ukai’s mother emerged too-slowly from the back of the shop to take over the counter Ukai already had his apron off and was waving her goodbye before she’d even fully seen him. He suspects she knows what’s going on -- she’s always figured things out about his personal life well before he’s told her, and the too-quick glance she gives to Takeda already smiling up at Ukai next to him says this won’t be an exception -- but he doesn’t care at the moment. She can tease him with motherly affection all she wants the next time he’s over for dinner; for now he has to get Takeda back behind closed doors as soon as possible.

They only barely make it. Ukai refrains from taking Takeda’s hand on the too-public walk back, but Takeda spends the entire distance beaming up at him as if the inane small talk they’re making to fill the time is the most fascinating thing in the world. He walks too close; his sleeve catches against Ukai with every third step and his feet veer him in nearer so he keeps tripping and nearly falling against the support of Ukai’s body, and Ukai wants to reach out and fit his arm around Takeda’s shoulders, wants to stop them in the middle of the street so he can turn Takeda’s chin up and catch his mouth in a kiss. It doesn’t make sense that he should be so desperate after he’s been patient for so long, but the memory of Takeda’s mouth on his this morning is too clear and too distant, the details pristine enough that the hours since Ukai last felt the press of the other’s lips feel like an eternity. He thinks about it the whole way back, his focus going more desperate and less coherent the nearer they get, and by the time he’s fumbling the front door open Takeda’s gone quiet too, conversation abandoned so he’s left just standing close enough to bump against Ukai’s elbow as the other works the lock open. Then the latch is free, the door is coming open -- and Takeda is pressing in against Ukai’s back, barely waiting until they’re past the entryway and into the house before his fingers are catching under the bottom edge of the other’s t-shirt.

“Shit,” Ukai says, heat coming too fast on his tongue to be restrained, and he knocks the door shut without looking to see it latch closed. Takeda takes a breath against his shoulder, his touch slides up over Ukai’s skin, and Ukai is gasping at the friction and turning around as quickly as he can to chase the soft of Takeda’s mouth. Takeda looks up as he turns, his hand still pressing flush against Ukai’s chest, and Ukai doesn’t know which of them moves first but it doesn’t matter: his hand lands in Takeda’s hair, Takeda’s free arm catches around his shoulders, and then Ukai’s mouth is against Takeda’s again and he’s groaning satisfaction against the other’s lips as all his body goes hot with appreciation. Takeda is pushing at his shirt, urging it up and off Ukai’s skin faster than the other can think, and then Takeda lets his hold on the other’s shoulders go and draws back to gasp for air as he drags to pull the fabric over Ukai’s head before he can catch up to what’s happening. Ukai ducks instinctively, letting the soft of the shirt slide over his hair and off his shoulders before he lets Takeda go long enough to draw his hands free of the sleeves.

“Jesus, sensei,” he says, and he means it as a laugh but the sound goes smokey in his throat and purrs into something far lower and darker than he intended. “I don’t even have my shoes off yet.”

“Yes,” Takeda agrees, and if Ukai sounds smokey Takeda sounds like sex itself, his voice is purring over a thrum of heat in the back of his throat that Ukai’s never heard before. “We should go to the bedroom.”

“Fuck,” Ukai blurts, and then he’s reaching for Takeda one-handed, pulling the other back in against him while he struggles out of his shoes with more speed than grace. Takeda doesn’t even try; it’s not until Ukai has kicked his shoes off and drawn back to blink at the haze eclipsing the gold of the other’s eyes that Takeda draws his hands back from the path they’ve been mapping up Ukai’s back and drops to sit at the edge of the entryway to drag his shoes off. It’s less than elegant but Ukai can’t complain about the efficiency; he barely has time to smile before Takeda is back on his feet -- bare, this time -- and pressing against him again, catching both arms around Ukai’s neck to pull himself up for another kiss. He’s hot everywhere they touch, the whole line of his body pressed flush to Ukai’s, and Ukai doesn’t try to pull away; he just loops his arm around Takeda’s waist, presses the spread of his fingers into a hold between the angle of Takeda’s shoulderblades, and stumbles back to maneuver them out of the entryway and towards the bedroom. It’s not an entirely safe process -- with his eyes shut and his attention occupied Ukai can’t see where they’re going and ends up finding the bedroom door more by running into it than by leading them there -- but they make it into the space without major incident, and across the floor Ukai hasn’t had a chance to clear, and then Takeda is dropping his weight back over the bed, and Ukai’s balance goes, and they both land over the soft of the sheets with more force than he intended.

“Sorry,” Ukai manages somewhere from the breathless distraction in him as he braces a hand against the bed alongside Takeda and fits his fingers just against the hem of the other’s soft shirt. “It’s kind of a mess.”

“It’s fine,” Takeda tells him, and he’s arching off the bed in an invitation for Ukai to continue the motion he had barely thought through. Ukai’s heart skids, his breathing sticks in his throat, but he pushes up anyway to urge Takeda’s shirt up and off his skin. Takeda ducks out of the collar, knocking his glasses sideways as he goes, but Ukai’s not looking at his face; he’s caught by the angle of Takeda’s collarbones under his skin, distracted by the line of the other’s waist like it was made for the press of his fingers. Takeda shudders when Ukai touches him, his whole body trembling visibly at the contact, and Ukai groans an exhale and ducks in closer to fit his mouth to Takeda’s shoulder while his hand trails down to press against the top edge of the other’s pants.

“ _Oh_ ,” Takeda breathes, and his hips rock up all at once, the arch of his body pressing him flush against Ukai for a single breath. Ukai can feel the rush of heat that hits him like it’s answering the radiant warmth clinging to all of Takeda’s body, and he can feel how hard Takeda is under him already, can feel the heat of the other’s cock pressing taut against the front of his clothes. “ _Ukai-kun_.”

“God,” Ukai breathes, and he’s drawing his hand sideways, his fingers are trailing away from the smooth edge of Takeda’s hip and across the tremor in his stomach instead. “Can I…?”

“Yes,” Takeda says, his voice straining and his lashes fluttering. Ukai’s heart is pounding in his chest, his cock going harder with every inhale, but Takeda looks undone already, like the touch of Ukai’s skin against his was enough to unravel whatever facade of composure he usually has. “Please do.”

Ukai does. He has to look down at what he’s doing to manage the unfamiliar fastenings of Takeda’s pants, but it only takes a moment anyway, and then Takeda is arching off the bed again, drawing one hand away from Ukai’s shoulders so he can reach down and push at the other side of his clothes. Between them it’s a simple matter, just a shove against the fabric to urge it off Takeda’s hips, and then Ukai can see all of him, pale skin and flushed cock and trembling thighs, and everything in his head stalls for just a moment, his hand still caught at Takeda’s knee along the rumpled mess they’ve made of the other’s clothes. Ukai’s staring, he knows he is, and he’s going painfully hot against the inside of his jeans, like all the heat in his blood is surging to match the color he can see flushing Takeda’s pale skin to pink under him.

“Ukai-kun,” Takeda says, and shifts to push his clothes farther down, and Ukai recollects himself all at once and moves to drag Takeda’s pants off the rest of the way. Takeda kicks his feet free, and angles his knees wider, and then he pulls at Ukai’s neck and Ukai leans in closer as urged, his weight toppling forward to land him between the heat of Takeda’s spread legs. It’s too much for a moment, the suggestion of the position and the dizzy heat in Ukai’s thoughts together, and when he moves it’s to buck his hips forward, reflex winning out over restraint to grind the heat of his cock in hard against Takeda’s thigh. Takeda shudders under him, his cock twitching hot against Ukai’s stomach, and Ukai can’t breathe and can’t think and he has to get his clothes off, has to get closer than this, but he can’t remember how to draw back long enough to manage it. He’s caught where he is, with Takeda’s legs angled open around his hips and Takeda’s hands bracing hard at his neck, and all he can do for a moment is gasp against the other’s mouth and rock forward to pin the tremor in Takeda’ body down against the sheets. Takeda is shaking under him, panting for air against Ukai’s mouth until it’s hard even to kiss him, and Ukai has the brief, mad idea of getting him off just like this, of reaching down and closing his fingers around Takeda’s length just to see the way his head would tilt back, just to see the way his throat would work on the high, desperate whine of pleasure. Ukai wants to hear it, wants to taste it, wants to press his mouth to Takeda’s and catch the sound of the other’s orgasm on his tongue; and then Takeda takes an inhale, and says “Ukai-kun” like the start to a sentence, and Ukai draws himself back with an exertion of will he didn’t know he had. Even then he doesn’t make it far; he’s still so close he can see the fog of heat threatening Takeda’s glasses, can see the damp clinging to the other’s parted lips.

“Sorry,” he says, not sure what he’s apologizing for but giving it voice anyway. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” Takeda says, shaking his head for good measure; the action knocks his glasses off-center but he doesn’t bother to correct them. “I just wanted to let you know that I.” He takes a breath, like he’s bracing himself for some kind of an admission; when he follows this up with “I’m clean” it takes Ukai a long moment to understand what he means. Maybe it’s the distraction in his thoughts, the heat of arousal in him that makes it so hard to pick up on the implication, or maybe it’s just that he’s not expecting this line of conversation; in any case it’s enough that he stares blankly at the other for a moment while Takeda catches another breath. “I haven’t been with anyone in years, and of course I trust you, so if you want you could--”

“ _Oh_ ,” Ukai says, the sound spilling from his lips as the entirety of his body goes prickling hot. “I. Yeah. Me either. I mean I have condoms if you--”

“No,” Takeda says, and he’s shaking his head harder now, his cheeks flushing dark as his lashes dip heavy over his eyes. Ukai can see him swallow, can see the effort of the motion in his throat. “No, I don’t, I’d like to feel you.”

It’s a simple statement, to carry as much heat as it does. Ukai’s throat tenses, his chest works on a groan of want, and if he hadn’t already been as hard as he can be he’s sure that would be enough to bring him to it, those words blurted so easily from Takeda’s lips they don’t even sound like the confession they are. Takeda blushes darker but he’s smiling too, his mouth curving into delight that sparkles in his eyes, and Ukai has to lean back in to kiss him hard, to catch the startled whimper of sound off the other’s lips as Ukai pins him back against the sheets. Takeda goes pliant almost immediately, surrendering to the force of Ukai urging him down; his arm tightens around Ukai’s neck, his back arches to press him close against the other’s chest, and for a moment they’re pinned together like that, Ukai’s arm braced against the sheets and his shoulder straining with the effort as Takeda drags himself up as near to the other’s body as he can get. Finally it’s Ukai who collects himself, who pulls away enough to say “Alright” as much for his own focus as for Takeda’s. Takeda falls back to the bed, blinking a hazy stare up at him, and Ukai has to look away or he’ll never be able to stop kissing color into the soft of Takeda’s barely-parted lips. “Turn over.”

“Oh,” Takeda breathes, “yes” and he’s moving as fast as Ukai pulls away, relinquishing his hold on the other’s neck so he can twist onto his side instead. He pulls his glasses off immediately, reaching out to fumble for a flat surface on which to set them, and Ukai stretches to take them, leaning far to the side to place them carefully out of range of the bed itself. The lube is easier to find, tucked into the gap between the wall and the bed; by the time Ukai’s retrieved it Takeda has worked himself around to lie on his stomach, has angled one arm under his head to serve as a pillow and is reaching out with the other to ghost his touch against the wall above him. He’s smiling, Ukai can see without looking for it, still flushing with embarrassment or anticipation Ukai’s not sure which; but then Ukai’s no better, when he thinks about it, he can feel his entire body radiating heat until there’s sweat prickling against the dip of his collarbones and in the angle of his elbows. The weight of his jeans is too much, the burden of the denim unpleasant against the glowing heat of his skin; he rocks up over his knees to unfasten the fly of his pants, works them down off his hips with a speed more focused on efficiency than grace. There’s a prickle of self-consciousness in him as his clothes slide off to bare the heat of his cock flushed hard with the desire running electric in his veins; but then Takeda makes a strange sound, a choked-off noise as much a moan as a whimper, and when Ukai looks up the other is watching him with his eyes half-lidded to shadows like Ukai’s never seen in his face before. Takeda’s mouth is open, his lips parted on heat as if he can’t recall how to press them shut; and whatever self-consciousness was threatening evaporates to the sudden burn of need that crests in Ukai’s body. He huffs an exhale, feels the air burn like fire in his throat, and then he’s struggling out of his clothes, shoving his jeans over the edge of the mattress to fall forgotten to the floor while he settles himself over his knees and reaches out for the bottle again.

“Let me know if I’m being too rough,” he offers as he works the lid open and lets the liquid spill into a slick shine across his fingers. Takeda’s breathing hard against the bed; Ukai would be able to hear the strain of anticipation in the other’s inhales even if he couldn’t see the tremor running through his braced shoulders and spread-open thighs. Ukai reaches out without thinking, touches his fingertips to the dip of Takeda’s spine; and Takeda shudders convulsively, his whole body shaking like Ukai’s touch is electric. It makes Ukai groan, spreads his fingers wide and bracing against Takeda’s back, and Takeda angles his knees wider, making an explicit invitation of his body even if he has his head turned down now to pant against the sheets. “It’s been a while since I did this to anyone else.”

“It’s fine,” Takeda says, the reassurance spilling over his tongue like he’s in a race to blurt it for Ukai’s hearing. “I go fast when I’m touching myself, you won’t hurt me.”

Ukai can feel his fingers tense against Takeda’s back, the flex of his hold an involuntary tell for his reaction if the huff of heat in his throat wasn’t enough to give him away. “Oh fuck,” he says, and then he’s reaching out and touching slick fingers to the heat of Takeda’s entrance. Takeda’s thighs flex, his hips buck forward involuntarily against the sheets, but Ukai keeps his touch where it is as he presses slippery liquid to catch and coat Takeda’s skin. “You touch yourself like this?”

“What?” Takeda says, turning his head to look back over his shoulder. “Oh. Yes.” He’s blinking himself into some kind of focus, his eyes a little hazy with myopia and his mouth half-open on heat, but Ukai can see the flush catching at his cheeks, can see the shift of his throat as he swallows. “It’s been some time since I had a partner with me.”

“God,” Ukai breathes, and Takeda’s still looking back at him, still granting him all the heat-dizzy focus his gaze can manage. “Stay like that,” he says, and then he angles his hand and presses just inside the other. Takeda’s lashes flutter, his mouth comes open involuntarily, and Ukai whimpers incoherent reaction to the heat he can see flicker all of Takeda’s expression soft and uncontrolled for a moment. Takeda’s fingers flex at the wall, his hips tip down, but he doesn’t turn his head away again, he keeps looking back over his shoulder to watch Ukai watching him as the other pushes in deeper. Ukai can feel Takeda shifting, can feel the shuddering tension in his body as Ukai’s touch works him open, but there’s no pain on his face; he looks hot instead, like the focus in his expression is melting away with the push of Ukai’s touch, and Ukai can’t make himself look away from the part of Takeda’s lips on the rush of his breathing.

“Fuck,” he says, and he draws his hand back, and Takeda whimpers, his knees digging into the bed as he rocks himself up as if to follow Ukai’s touch. Heat cascades down Ukai’s spine, rippling through him to ache in the heat of his cock, and he pushes back in before he intends to, the thrust of his hand following some reflexive response more than a conscious decision of his own. Takeda’s head falls to his arm, his lashes fluttering closed for a moment, but when he opens his mouth it’s to breathe “Ukai-kun” with all the heat of a prayer under it, as if he’s offering the name to the private dark of his bedroom and not the tangle of Ukai’s sheets. Ukai can’t catch his breath, he can’t think; there’s no rationality left in him at all, nothing but the rhythm of his touch sliding into the slick heat of Takeda’s body under him. Takeda’s still shivering against the sheets, still rocking back to meet Ukai with each motion the other takes; Ukai’s fairly sure it’s involuntary, but the suspicion that it’s more reflex than intent arching Takeda’s body up towards him does nothing at all to take off the edge of heat that is running all through him as if in place of his blood. Ukai draws his hand back, tries a second finger, and Takeda groans approval instantly as soon as the other’s touch brushes him, before Ukai’s even pressed inside. It’s easier than Ukai expects, a smooth slide of friction as he stretches Takeda open, and still there’s no tension in Takeda’s face, no crease of strain at his forehead or stress at his lips. He’s just trembling over the bed, his eyes glazed out-of-focus and his mouth open on his breathing, until finally when Ukai takes a breath and says “Okay” he’s not sure Takeda is listening to him at all. He hesitates for a breath, just to see if he can get a response, but it’s not until he starts to draw his fingers back that Takeda gasps an inhale and lifts his head to look back over his shoulder.

“I’m going to try,” Ukai says, spilling near-incoherent words to the damp heat of Takeda’s mouth and the warmth flushing all across the span of his shoulders. “Tell me if I hurt you?”

“Yes,” Takeda says, but it doesn’t sound like agreement; it sounds like heat, like desire given voice from the depth of his chest, the sound shadowed enough to match the blown-wide dark of his eyes. “Ukai-kun, _yes_.”

“Right,” Ukai says, and slides his touch free so he can reach down for the heat of his cock, so he can catch and drag the slick of his palm over himself. “Okay.” He’s trembling, he realizes, he can feel adrenaline shimmering just under his skin even as he moves; but his hand is still braced against Takeda’s back, and if Takeda is still shaking Ukai can’t feel it, can’t feel anything but heat from the point where they touch. He slides his hand up farther by an inch, presses the weight of his palm just against the dip of Takeda’s spine, and Takeda takes a deep breath of anticipation just as Ukai shifts his legs apart and tips his weight forward. He has to spread his knees wide -- Takeda is flat on the bed, it’s hard to get low enough to match him -- but Takeda’s are wider still, the pale inside line of his thighs an invitation warm enough to speak for itself. Ukai takes a breath, and steadies his balance; and then he’s there, and he’s pushing forward, and Takeda moans a tiny shattered noise under him as Ukai’s cock slides into him. He’s hot to the touch, tight around the width of Ukai pressing into him, and there’s nothing between them at all, there’s just the slick drag of skin-on-skin as Ukai thrusts deeper.

“Oh,” Ukai groans, his voice cracking at the back of his tongue and giving way to incoherent want in his throat. “God, fuck, sensei--”

“ _Oh_ ,” Takeda gasps, “ _Keishin_ ” and Ukai’s entire body flashes as instantly to heat as if he’s been shocked. He doesn’t know what he says -- there must be some sound he makes, some startled note of surprise in his throat -- because Takeda chokes off his inhale enough to manage an “I’m sorry” somewhere around the heat rough on his voice. “It’s habit, I--”

“Don’t apologize,” Ukai tells him, and weights his hand against Takeda’s spine to brace the other in place against the bed. “Just. Say it again.”

“Keishin,” Takeda says, immediately, without a trace of hesitation on his tongue, and Ukai lets all the air in his chest rush out of him in a groan, lets his hips rock forward in a motion made easy with reflex. Takeda jolts under him, his whole body tensing with the force, but his breathing is coming around the outline of pleasure, and there’s still no trace of anything but slurring heat across his face. “ _Keishin_.”

“God,” Ukai breathes, and then he pulls back, and thrusts in again, and even the shape of his name on Takeda’s tongue disintegrates into a desperate wail in the other’s throat. Takeda’s shoulder flexes, his arm straining as he braces himself against the wall, and Ukai doesn’t look away, just keeps his attention fixed to the span of Takeda’s shoulders and the open-mouthed gasp of his breathing. It’s different than he imagined, _better_ than he imagined, because all his imagination could never match this, right now, with the heat of Takeda’s skin going sweat-slick under his palm and the tremor of the other’s thighs spread open under him shaking with every forward thrust he takes. Takeda’s not touching himself -- both his arms are angled up by his head still -- and Ukai isn’t reaching to fit a hand between his hips and the sheets, but he’s not sure he needs to; Takeda is echoing each of Ukai’s motions with a groan in the back of his throat, his lashes fluttering with every tremor in his throat. He looks undone, looks desperate even without the frantic, half-formed motion of his hips pressing him down against the sheets, and Ukai doesn’t want to stop to rearrange their position, not when every thrust he takes sparks heat up his spine and unfolds another dip of pleasure off Takeda’s lips. His breathing is coming harder, his voice dropping to cast every exhale into the shadows of heat, and so is Takeda’s, he’s finally turning his face down to press against the sheets but it’s doing nothing to stifle the whimpers spilling up his throat and off his tongue. Ukai catches his free hand at Takeda’s hip, tightens his hold on the other as he slides forward in another long arc of movement, and he can feel Takeda’s back tighten under the press of his hand, can hear the choked-off inhale the other takes against the sheets. His shoulders flex, his fingers curl to a fist on the sheets; and then Ukai draws back, and thrusts forward, and Takeda moans a shattered-open sound to the bed and starts to come, his whole body trembling as tension gives way to the involuntary shudders of pleasure. Ukai’s gasping for air, his shoulders curving in over the damp flush on Takeda’s skin, and he can feel Takeda coming around him, can feel each spasm of heat as clear as he can hear the other’s stuttered breathing, and then he takes a breath and everything in him goes incandescent, even the air in his lungs flickering into white heat for a moment. There’s heat on his lips, a curse or a groan or maybe just Takeda’s name, he doesn’t know which, and Takeda is shivering under him as if Ukai coming is enough to restart his own orgasm from the aftershocks alone. Ukai’s shoulders curve, his hand slips, and by the time his hands are bracketing Takeda’s hips his forehead is pressing to the other’s shoulders, his whole body has tipped down to angle as close to the heat of Takeda’s body as he can get.

For long moments Ukai is still, just breathing deep lungfuls of warmth off the radiance of Takeda’s shoulders while Takeda trembles himself to stillness under the press of the other’s weight. It’s not until Takeda’s breathing has levelled off that Ukai stirs himself enough to rock back and slide free of the other’s body; Takeda makes a faint sound under him, relief or loss Ukai’s not certain which, but Ukai doesn’t move any farther away than to let himself fall onto his back across the bed alongside the other man. Takeda’s shoulders shift, he lifts his head from his arm, and when Ukai turns to look up at the other Takeda is blinking hazy attention at him, his mouth parted on the heat of his breathing and his eyes as soft on pleasure as from unfocus.

“Hey,” Ukai says, somewhat pointlessly, and Takeda’s mouth quirks into a smile wide enough to dimple at the corners of his lips.

“Hello,” he says. Ukai lifts a hand and reaches out to brush his fingers against Takeda’s hair; Takeda’s lashes flutter, his head tips in to the meet the contact, and Ukai smiles unseen as he ghosts his fingers through the sweat-damp curls of Takeda’s hair.

“So,” he says, feeling the sound curl against the pleasure-rough edges in his throat to come out as more of a purr than the casual tone he was aiming for. “Can I call you Ittetsu, then?” Takeda coughs a laugh, sudden and startled, and Ukai grins and catches his fingers to weight against the back of Takeda’s neck. “It’d only be fair.”

“I _am_ sorry,” Takeda says again, but he’s smiling still, and when Ukai pulls against him he leans in closer without hesitation. “I got in the habit of referring to you that way when I. Ah. Was alone.”

“Yeah?” Ukai purrs, deliberately this time. “You’ll have to tell me about it sometime.”

Takeda’s smile is bright, sparkling into his eyes even as his cheeks flush into self-consciousness. “I will,” he says, and then Ukai can’t wait any longer, and he has to pull Takeda over the last few inches to catch the other’s mouth with his. Takeda laughs delight against his lips, and turns in to press himself against Ukai’s chest, and Ukai settles his fingers into Takeda’s hair and catches his free hand at the other’s waist to pull him in closer.

He can almost taste the sound of his name clinging to Takeda’s tongue.


	59. Show

Takeda wakes up first. This is typical, by now, has become routine over the last six nights out of seven they have spent together; after the first day, when Takeda stirred to consciousness to find Ukai smiling at him, he’s been the first to rouse from however many hours of sleep they manage to get after making it to bed together. Ukai sleeps soundly, as it turns out, drowsing through Takeda taking a shower and even making breakfast, once; but today there’s no early morning responsibilities to pull Takeda up from the warmth of their shared blankets. He’s free to stretch himself into consciousness with luxurious slowness, free to take the first several minutes of waking to gaze at the ceiling and let the satisfaction of the moment fill his mind. It’s not until then that he stirs enough to roll sideways and reach for his glasses, and only after his vision is clear again that he turns back to look at Ukai beside him.

Ukai looks calm when he sleeps. Some of the usual tension across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes eases with unconsciousness, the absence of his waking thoughts enough to let his face fall into the soft weight of sleep. He’s lying on his stomach, his head turned sideways against the pillow, and his lips are barely parted, his breathing catching very faintly at the back of his throat. It’s too soft to be called a snore, really more of a purr so faint Takeda can only hear it if Ukai’s mouth is pressed close against his ear or at the back of his neck when they fall asleep. Right now he can’t hear it at all, even when he leans in close to settle a hand against Ukai’s waist and press his mouth to the dip of the other’s shoulders left bare by the sheets tangled around his hips. There’s no answering movement, no indication that Ukai is stirring from sleep, so Takeda keeps going, marking out a path down the line of the other’s spine as he moves to catch the radiant heat of sleep-warm skin against his lips. He’s nearly to the curve at the base of Ukai’s spine when the other finally shifts, and groans, and flexes himself into consciousness under Takeda’s lips.

“Fuck,” he says, his voice so rough on sleep and muffled by the pillow under him that Takeda can barely hear the sound. “What time is it?”

“Just past six,” Takeda says without moving away. He fits his lips to Ukai’s spine, presses a kiss against the warm of the other’s skin, and Ukai shudders under him like his touch is electric.

“We’ve only been in bed for five hours,” Ukai says, his tone suggesting a protest that his absolute lack of movement does nothing to support. “And only asleep for four. Aren’t you tired still?”

“No,” Takeda says. It’s true -- he will be later, he’s sure, he can feel the weight of physical exhaustion along his shoulders and collecting at the length of his spine -- but right now he feels bright with alertness, and besides there’s a tug of heat low in his stomach that’s demanding satisfaction of some kind before he does anything else. “We can take a nap later.”

“Sure,” Ukai growls, sounding more amused than frustrated. “I know what ‘taking a nap’ means for you. You’re wearing me down, sensei, I need time to recover if you want to keep making use of my body like you have been.”

“It’s a nice way to wake up,” Takeda argues, working his way back up Ukai’s spine slowly, so he can feel the way the other’s body trembles to heat with each press of his lips. “It doesn’t have to be tiring, we can go slow.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ukai grumbles, but his shoulders are tensing under Takeda’s hands as the other comes up higher. When Takeda catches a kiss to the back of his neck Ukai groans, tipping his head down hard against the pillows to offer the tangle of yellow hair and the warmth of his skin for the other’s lips. “It’s a lot less exertion for you than it is for me.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Takeda tells him. He shifts closer, letting the weight of his chest against Ukai’s shoulders take his weight so he can push up through the soft of Ukai’s hair with one hand; Ukai shivers under him, his breath rushing to heat against Takeda’s pillows. “I could use my mouth instead. Or I could be on top, if you want.” Ukai’s shoulders tense under Takeda’s chest; when he takes an inhale Takeda can hear it catch to interest in the back of his throat. Takeda’s skin prickles with heat, his fingers tightening against Ukai’s hair; when he moves it’s to kiss just against the edge of Ukai’s jawline instead, to press warmth under the curve of the other’s ear before he goes on.

“All you’d have to do is turn over onto your back,” he suggests, the words catching into shadows he doesn’t deliberately intend at the back of his throat. “I can open myself up, it would only take a few minutes. I’d do all the work, all you’d need to do is let me.”

“Just let you ride my dick?” Ukai suggests, but he’s laughing, and when he turns his head up from the pillows his eyes are dark with interest. “I dunno, sensei, that sounds like a pretty big favor.”

“Please,” Takeda begs, knowing he’s won already but savouring the flutter of Ukai’s lashes at his tone anyway. “Please, Keishin, I’m begging you.”

“ _God_ ,” Ukai groans, and then he’s pushing up from the bed by an inch and lifting his head to catch Takeda’s lips with his. Takeda’s eyes shut immediately, his throat tenses on a moan of appreciation, and for a moment all he’s thinking about is the drag of Ukai’s mouth against his. Takeda licks against Ukai’s mouth, Ukai catches Takeda’s lip in his teeth, and Takeda is just starting to whimper heat when Ukai pulls back to blink heavy-lidded at him.

“Fine,” he says, attaining a reasonable approximation of frustration at the back of his voice. “Get the lube, sensei.”

“Ah,” Takeda says, “yes.” Ukai falls back to the bed, pillowing his head on one arm so he can keep his eyes on Takeda, and Takeda turns away for a moment to stretch out and fumble through the tangle of their clothes abandoned the night before for the bottle left somewhere atop them. He finds it after a moment -- it’s caught in the weight of Ukai’s rumpled jeans -- and then he rocks back over the bed, pushing himself free of the blankets so he can sit up over his knees as he opens the bottle to spill slick across his fingers. The movement is simple, familiar and efficient and easy; Takeda closes the lid of the bottle, presses his fingers to slip against each other, and when he shifts against the bed it’s to slide his knees apart and rock his weight forward and up so he can fit his hand between his legs. He’s not thinking about the action, not thinking about much of anything beyond a few minutes from now, when Ukai will turn over and he can move to straddle the width of his hips, but then Ukai’s breathing catches in his chest, something stalling to almost-a-groan in his throat, and when Takeda looks up at him the other man is staring at his hand with so much darkness in his eyes Takeda’s face flushes hot in immediate reaction, his movement stalling just shy of his fingers touching himself.

“Keishin?” he asks, suddenly uncertain under the press of Ukai’s eyes on him.

Ukai blinks hard, takes a breath deliberate enough that Takeda can hear it hiss in his chest. “Yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t look up; Takeda can see him shift his arm under his head, can see his shoulder strain for a moment before easing into assumed calm. His other hand comes out, his fingers stretching over the gap between them to land at the inside of Takeda’s knee, to push gently against the warmth of his skin. “You should move your knees farther apart, sensei.”

Takeda’s whole body flushes hot. He was hard already, arousal warm in his veins alongside the anticipation of the satisfaction to come; but now Ukai’s staring at him like there’s heat to be gained even from this necessary preparation, like his entire sleep-hazed attention is awaiting the shift of Takeda’s fingers. Takeda lets his knee go wider, rocks farther back on his heels so he can spread his legs apart, and Ukai lets his touch fall away but Takeda’s still thrumming with heat, like the weight of Ukai’s gaze is enough to carry sensation all by itself. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” Ukai says. He swallows, and licks his lips, but he doesn’t turn over from his sprawl across Takeda’s sheets. “That’s good.”

“Right,” Takeda says, and he starts moving again, his legs trembling very slightly with awareness of Ukai watching him. His fingers are unsteady, the familiar slick of his touch made novel by the addition of Ukai’s gaze, but there’s still the usual prickle of heat at the contact, still the tension of anticipation shivering up his spine. Takeda takes a breath, shudders it out, and then he moves, angling his wrist and sliding a finger into himself with the ease of experience. It feels the same as ever, a little bit of a stretch and a little bit of an ache, but Ukai makes a sound in the back of his throat and Takeda clenches tight around himself for a moment of instant response. He’s going breathless, flushing hot across his cheeks as if it’s Ukai’s fingers inside him instead of his own, but he’s still moving, the familiarity of habit enough to urge his touch farther even as his legs tremble with hyper-awareness of Ukai watching him. He wonders how he looks, wonders if he’s going faster than Ukai expects, or slower; can Ukai see the tremors of convulsive heat that keep running through him every time he thinks about the other’s gaze tracking the slide of his finger into himself? He’s aching with want, desire going sharp and near-painful in his chest, and when he shifts it’s to spread his legs wider still before drawing his touch back so he can press in with two fingers together. It’s almost too much, it’s a rush from his usual pace, but the stretch feels good, this time, it soothes the ache low in his stomach and pulls a groan from his throat, a spill of heat that unfolds up and over his tongue like the press of his fingers is pushing it out of him. The feeling is familiar, the weight of his motion a sensation he knows well; but Ukai’s here, this time, his lips parted on the speed of his breathing and his lashes dipping to darkness with every thrust Takeda takes. Takeda’s shaking, he can feel the tremor running up his spine and through the heat of his cock pressed hard against the inside of his arm, but he doesn’t stop, he’s tipping his knees wider still, until he can feel the ache all against the inside line of his thighs, and still he wants more, wants to be laid bare for Ukai’s gaze and stripped down so the other can see the flush on his skin, can see each tremor of heat that runs through him.

“Keishin,” Takeda says, but his voice goes to darkness in his throat, the other’s name comes out as a moan more than a statement, he’s never heard his own voice sound so low and liquid before. “ _Keishin_.”

“Fuck,” Ukai groans, and he’s moving, he’s reaching to shove at the blankets tangled around his hips and turn over in one rushed movement. The weight of his drowsiness before is wholly absent now; he moves fast, kicking his legs free in the same action that lets him roll over onto his back. He’s flushed hard against his stomach, his cock visibly slick at the head even in the low lighting of the early morning, and Takeda is moving as quickly as Ukai did, sliding his fingers free of himself and reaching to close a slippery hold around the other’s length before he’s even braced his hand at Ukai’s hip. Ukai groans at the contact, his hips bucking up to meet the grip of Takeda’s fingers, but Takeda doesn’t give him more than a cursory stroke to coat the heat of his cock with slick liquid. He’s too hot, too desperate with want and arousal and anticipation, and he’s moving as fast as he gets his hand around Ukai’s length, leaning hard against his hold at Ukai’s hip so he can maneuver himself to straddle the width of the other’s body. Ukai’s hands come out to his skin, his fingers close to brace hard at Takeda’s hips, and Takeda rocks himself forward while he slides his slick grip down to steady at the brace of Ukai’s cock, to hold the other still while he angles his weight back and down. There’s pressure against him, Ukai takes a sharp inhale, and then Takeda’s sinking onto the other’s cock and they both make a desperate, groaning sound as they slide together.

“ _Oh_ ,” Takeda gasps, and he’s moving immediately, rocking his weight up by an inch so he can drop back down and Ukai’s cock can stretch deeper into him. “ _Keishin_.”

“Fuck,” Ukai says succinctly, his fingers tensing to the threat of bruises at Takeda’s hips. “You’re.” Takeda shifts again, pulling away for another stroke, and Ukai’s hands drag him back down, the other’s hips bucking up involuntarily to thrust farther into him. “ _God_.”

“That feels--” but Takeda doesn’t have words, not for this, not for Ukai sprawled underneath him with his hands guiding Takeda’s movements as he rocks himself down onto the other’s length. “Keishin.”

“Keep going,” Ukai tells him. “Don’t stop, Ittetsu.”

“Okay,” Takeda gasps, and he doesn’t. He presses his hand to the bed, angles his elbow out to brace himself in place, and he keeps going, his breathing catching faster with every slide of motion he takes. Ukai’s groaning under him, incoherent encouragement hot on his tongue, and Takeda’s vision is giving way to a heat-hazed blur even before he untangles his free hand from the fist he’s made of the sheets and reaches to close his hold around the flushed heat of his cock. He whimpers at the first stroke, shuddering through the tremor of sensation that runs through him, and Ukai groans and moves at once, letting one hand go from Takeda’s hip to push himself to upright instead. Takeda loses his rhythm for a moment as the other shifts, his balance teetering as Ukai sits up towards him; but then Ukai’s catching around his waist instead of at his hip, the support of his arm holding Takeda steady once more, and Takeda moves again, reaching to grab at Ukai’s shoulder with his bracing hand instead while he resumes the rocking motion of his hips. Ukai tips his head forward, presses his forehead into Takeda’s shoulder, and Takeda can feel the huff of a groan he makes against the other’s skin. Fingers catch at Takeda’s, Ukai’s hand interposing between the flush of Takeda’s cock and the slick of his fingers, and Takeda relinquishes his hold without hesitation, letting his other arm drop around the other’s shoulders along with the first as Ukai’s grip steadies to stroke hard over his cock. Ukai can’t get much motion from their current position, or at least not as much as he could from his back, but he still spreads his knees wider, the angle of his legs forcing Takeda’s thighs open too, and when he braces his heels against the bed he can gain an inch of movement from the forward thrust of his hips. Takeda shifts to match, to synchronize the downward slide of his body with the upward angle of Ukai’s, and he’s clinging to Ukai’s hair, now, his arms are shaking with tension and he doesn’t know what he’s saying, maybe it’s just Ukai’s name over and over like it’s being forced out of him with each of the other’s movements. Ukai’s fingers are tight around him, Ukai’s cock is hot inside him, and then Ukai groans “Fuck, Ittetsu, I won’t--” and Takeda jerks and gasps and comes, his fingers seizing tight on Ukai’s hair at the same time his body spasms into the sudden wave of heat that breaks over him. Ukai’s panting against his shoulder, Ukai’s still stroking over him, and Takeda’s coming onto Ukai’s fingers and wrist and stomach and everything has gone white, even his vision has turned to dreamy haze under the force of the sensation rippling through him. Ukai groans, his hips stuttering in their frantic rhythm, and Takeda thinks he’s still moving but it’s hard to be sure and it doesn’t matter anyway, not when he can feel Ukai tensing and spilling heat into him. The fingers bracing at his back ease, Ukai gasps for air against his shoulder, and for a moment they stay like that, Takeda’s fingers caught in Ukai’s hair and both of them breathing so hard Takeda can feel the haze of it heavy like fog in the air around them.

Eventually Ukai shifts, angling his knees a little closer together as he slides his hand off Takeda’s back and down to his hip, and Takeda follows his lead, bracing against the other’s shoulders so he can slide back and off Ukai and tip himself sideways instead of straddling the other man. Ukai falls back to the sheets, staring blank exhaustion up at the ceiling, and Takeda trails him back to the bed, shifting to lie close against the other’s side and stretch an arm out across his chest. Ukai’s touch at his hip slides up, trailing against his back to weight around his shoulders instead, and Takeda smiles against Ukai’s chest and tips closer to angle his knee over the other’s leg.

“Fuck,” Ukai says, sounding breathless and sultry with heat. “I didn’t think I was going to last there at the end.”

“It would have been alright if you hadn’t,” Takeda tells him, the words as dreamy and unfocused as his vision. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

“I would’ve,” Ukai tells him. His fingers trail up Takeda’s neck, curl into the sweat-damp weight of his hair. “It was your little show at the beginning that did me in.”

Takeda can feel his cheeks heat with self-consciousness, can feel his spine prickle embarrassment, but then he remembers the dark of Ukai’s eyes on him, and the part of the other’s lips as he stared, and when he shudders it’s not from shyness. “Did you like it?”

“God,” Ukai groans. “Yeah, I liked it.” His fingers ruffle through Takeda’s hair. “If you do that again I’ll be the one wearing you out.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Takeda breathes, his hold around Ukai’s chest tightening for a moment. “Really?”

“Really.” Ukai turns his head, his mouth catching at Takeda’s forehead; when he huffs a laugh Takeda can feel it tangle with his hair. “As if you needed more ways to seduce me.” Takeda’s the one who laughs, this time, a startled purr of sound that comes out muffled against Ukai’s shoulder, and then Ukai smiles into his hair and Takeda lifts his chin to meet him, and the rest of their conversation falls to the quiet of kissing instead.

They don’t make it out of bed for another hour, but neither of them has any complaints about the delay.


	60. Heard

The tournament gym is loud. Ukai remembered it that way from his time as a student, the more clearly from their most recent trip here for the last handful of tournament matches; this time he’s ready for it even before they arrive, has prepared himself for the ear-ringing brightness of the sounds that expand to fill the high ceilings of the courts and spill out even into the side hallways where he is now. It’s always a little hard to hear with such a backdrop of noise -- clear communication necessitates almost a shout, or far closer proximity than is usual -- but when the call comes, Ukai hears it without even trying.

“Ukai-kun!”

It’s the phrasing, of course -- there’s only one person who calls him that, and even then only in public -- but more it’s the voice, the high chirp of sound familiar enough to catch Ukai’s attention even were it months earlier, and most of all it’s that he’s been waiting for this, has been expecting to hear the sound of his name since he left the team to warm-up stretches and went out to pace along the halls alone. It’s not that he was hoping for it, exactly -- but then he turns, and sees Takeda beaming at him as he comes down the hall, and all Ukai’s attempts at professional calm give way to the drag of a too-wide smile at his lips.

“Sensei,” he drawls, trying to keep his tone level and only succeeding in keeping it back from complete dissolution into his best seductive purr. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I’ve been looking for you as well,” Takeda says, smiling all over his face in a way that wholly undoes any claim he might make to professionalism. “I had a question I was hoping you could help me with.”

It takes a conscious effort of will for Ukai to not laugh. “I’m always glad to help.”

Takeda’s cheeks dimple when he smiles. “Follow me,” he says, and takes the lead down the hallway to leave Ukai to turn and trail in his wake.

“Something wrong with that particular location?” Ukai asks Takeda’s shoulders, because they’re alone enough that he can risk a little teasing, and because he’s pretty sure anyone who chanced to see the way they’re both smiling at each other would have a clear idea of their relationship regardless of their token efforts to keep it a secret.

“Ah,” Takeda says, and he glances back over his shoulder to smile at Ukai following him. “No, nothing wrong, I just…” and he takes a turn around a corner and down a narrower side hallway, and Ukai follows him, and Takeda is turning back and reaching up for him as fast as Ukai can get his hand up and into the soft of the other’s hair.

“We’re going to get caught,” he murmurs as they stumble back into the shadows against the wall, and he’s aiming for a chastising tone but it just comes out as a shimmer of heat in his throat. “One of these days someone will see us, sensei.”

“Mm,” Takeda says, but he sounds distracted and looks more so; his gaze is sliding off Ukai’s eyes and down to his mouth, his focus clinging to the other’s lips as he wraps his arms around Ukai’s shoulders and rocks up on his toes to get closer. “It’s just for a minute.”

“It’s never just a minute,” Ukai protests, but he’s leaning in closer in spite of his tone, taking a half-step in to push Takeda back against the wall as he angles his arm up to brace against the wall over Takeda’s head and to offer them the minimal cover the sleeve of his jacket can grant. “You always say it’ll be fast and then ten minutes later the match is starting and we’re running to make it on time.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the time,” Takeda urges, and Ukai knows he won’t, knows that their mutual focus is going to dissolve as soon as they touch, but all he offers is a huff of skepticism before he leans in over the gap between them. Takeda shuts his eyes in anticipation, his lips curving on a smile before Ukai’s touched them, and when Ukai kisses him he tastes sweet, his mouth is as warm as if the flushed excitement of the upcoming match is catching to electricity at his lips. Ukai can feel the way Takeda sighs relief against his mouth, as if it’s only with Ukai’s lips against his that he can properly breathe, and for a few moments that’s all Ukai is thinking about: the soft of Takeda’s mouth against his and the breathless inhales of heat he takes every time Ukai pulls back to catch a breath.

“We should go back,” Ukai says, finally, after what feels like a bare handful of seconds and is probably closer to minutes. “We don’t want to miss the start of the match.”

“Or have someone come looking for us,” Takeda agrees, but he doesn’t let Ukai go, and when he looks up to smile at the other his eyes are so dark and his mouth so soft it’s all Ukai can do to keep from backing him flush against the wall and kissing the last suggestion of focus out of the other’s expression. He shudders through an exhale instead, tenses his hand against the wall to brace himself in place, and Takeda dimples a smile at him as if he knows what’s going through the other’s mind.

“We’ll win,” he says, his voice steady and so certain Ukai’s heart skips on adrenaline as if they already have, as if Takeda’s words are assurance of a victory yet to come. “We picked ourselves up and came back and this time we’re going to win.”

“Yeah,” Ukai says, and he can feel the whole of his body warm as if there’s sunshine radiating out from his chest to glow bright across every inch of his body. “We’ll win.”

Takeda smiles, his eyes sparkling to gold behind his glasses. “Keishin?”

Ukai huffs a smile. “Ittetsu.”

“I love you.” It’s soft, low enough that it’s nearly a whisper, but Ukai is close enough that he can hear it clearly as if Takeda’s voice is the only thing in the entire world. The warmth in his chest turns over, unfolds itself into intensity, and for a moment Ukai can’t breathe at all for the affection pressing hard against his ribs. He can feel his eyes going soft, can feel his mouth curving on happiness, and Takeda smiles up at him as Ukai feels himself glow with sunlight of his own.

“Love you too,” he says, and then he has to lean back in, because Takeda’s smile is breaking into a laugh and Ukai’s heart is thudding over the adrenaline of delight, and he has to press the weight of another kiss to Takeda’s mouth like it’s a good luck charm.

They’re going to win, he’s sure of it. Persistence always wins the day in the end.


End file.
